A Fairly Honorable Defeat
by knit-wear
Summary: After nearly two years apart Harley is called back to Gotham for the Joker's trial. Even after years of letting him twist her mind she knows sometimes it's impossible to stop loving someone-- no matter what they do to you.
1. The Trial

This is laboring under the plot line that Harley and the Joker are on again off again for many many years prior to him almost taking out half of Gotham. I wanted to write something romantic, this isn't exactly the same harley as my other Harley ut she's similar. Six chapters.

Disclaimer: i don't own the characters and the title belongs to Iris Murdoch's book of the same name. I love her.

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A Fairly Honorable Defeat

1. The Trial

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She felt boxed in.

Metaphorically, physically, spiritually-- most definitely psychologically. And there was no way out as far as she could see. Nothing to do but give in and tell the truth-- tell the truth they want you to tell anyway. The truth that will give them what they want. Insanity plea. What a silly thing to want so desperately she thought, folding her hands delicately in her lap. Fingerprint sized bruises had bloomed to the surface on her wrists. She sighed and dropped her head down, her mousey brown hair creating a straight curtain around her face. The last three inches were still platinum blonde but she hadn't bothered to get it cut or died. Clearly.

"Please state your name for the court--"

She was too afraid to look up so she just leaned forward to the microphone so her voice resonated throughout the room.

"Dr. Harleen Quinzel."

The sound of high heeled pumps dragging across the carpeted court room floor reached her ears as the new District Attorney approached-- Iris Goldman. Harley kept her head down, not wishing to make eye contact with this pyranha of a lawyer. She was suddenly very tired. Definitely not in the mood for handing out the insanity plea.

"Dr. Quinzel, could you please tell the courtroom your occupation," Iris Goldman requested crisply.

Harley cleared her throat and lifted her chin slightly though she kept her eyes trained on Iris Goldman, District Attorney for the city of Gotham's black stilettos. "Currently I am engaged in a research project at Yale University's psychology department in New Haven."

"I see," said Goldman. Somehow she made her tone patronizing, as if this was not an impressive achievement. "Can you please identify the man known as the Joker in this courtroom, Dr. Quinzel."

For a moment the muscles in Harley's neck refused to move and she remained staring at the ground-- at the horrible lumpy brown carpet that looked even more tatty and worn against Iris Goldman's flashy high heels. A murmur ran through the room as Harley remained frozen in place-- her breath coming in small gasps. Then she managed to glance up and let her gaze sweep the room until she found his figure, sitting calmly at the defendant's table. He sat absolutely still with his handcuffed hands clasped together on the tabletop while he stared up at the ceiling-- seeming irreparably bored.

Of course he was bored-- this whole thing was ever so trite, not to mention trying on one's _imaginaaaaation_. Harley clenched her jaw. Sometimes she heard his voice in her head, voicing her own thoughts. Or perhaps they weren't her own thoughts. Perhaps they were his.

His lawyer was scribbling hastily on yellow legal paper, only the top of his head visible-- a circle of baldness surrounded by fluffy, gray hair. She didn't know how he'd even managed to get a lawyer-- the guy was probably regretting taking on the case. Or at least he would be very soon.

He refused to look at her though-- just kept looking skyward as if asking God for a mirical when really he was just intentionally trying to her hurt her. She knew it, she could feel it and taste it. He loved to do that to her.

Iris Goldman seemed to be taking in her reaction with intensely smug pleasure, crossing her arms and keeping her pale eyes trained on Harley. "Please let the record show the witness has identified the man known as the Joker--" she said sharply, not taking her eyes off Harley. "Now, Dr. Qunizel, will you please tell the jury about your relationship with the man known as the Joker."

Harley dropped her gaze again, not caring if it made her weak to feel so inadequate and judged simply by his refusal to awkknowledge her, and this Goldman woman's apparent delight in the matter. "There is no relationship." she muttered, only barely audible through the microphone.

Goldman walked closer to the stand and rested her arms on the dark lacquered wood railing. She appeared casual and confident but there was something ferocious and animal-like in her demeanor. Harley couldn't tell if she liked it or not. She definitely despised this woman so completely for trying to put her baby-- no-- _just him_ away for life. But still there was something amusing about her determination-- so pointless and fierce, so useless and focused. It was a bad joke-- but a funny one none the less. Harley lowered her head even further, letting her chin rest against her chest and her mousey hair shielded her face once again.

"Harley, please remember you are in a court of law." The tone was so condescending that the self pity which Harley so identified herself with was ripped from from her body in an instant-- Harley's eyes flashed up, full of violence and self-actualizing need. She was pleased when Goldman took a step backwards, the lawyer's pale gaze jolted suddenly by the movement. The flicker of personality. The sight of what lurked beneath the surface.

"We were lovers for a brief time, I did not know what he was capable of," Harley lied woodenly.

"You and the the Joker were lovers but you did not realize he was capable of mass murder and terrorism?"

Harley glanced at the Joker again. He was still ignoring her but his lawyer was now sitting upright staring at her blankly, panic relatively obvious behind his watery eyes. She pursed her lips. "Yes."

"When was your last correspondence with the Joker?"

"About two years ago. I received a letter saying--" she looked at him again and he was still not looking in her direction-- now he was staring out the court room window which looked out over Gotham's dismal skyline. He still appeared disinterested in the whole ordeal but now his body language had changed slightly-- between professional psychiatry and knowing him inside and out she could see his shoulders were hunched, his head tilted awkwardly to the side as if frozen in place, his face tense-- the scars almost twitching with broken nerves under the skin. He didn't experience nervousnessper say, because nervousness indicates fear-- but he was a proponent of anxiety-- anxiety and a general mistrust of other people not to fuck up.

It was clear across his face now-- do not fuck up .

"--saying he missed me, he loved me, et cetera."

There was a long pause as another low rumble of conversation rolled over the courtroom.

The letter had actually been a death threat telling her if she didn't come back to Gotham he would find her and cut her up into little pieces.

She'd come back.

"What is the defendant's real name, surely if you were so in love you must know."

Did this woman have a tone other than patronizing or an agenda other than to be brutally murdered?

_NO._

_Do not think that way_.

Harley shook her head to clear it off the voices-- she managed to pass the movement off as a gesture of disagreement. "He does not have a name."

"How long have you known the defendant?"

She replied after a moment's thought, "Almost eight years."

"And after eight years of having loved a man who is a mass murderer, you neither knew his name, nor that he was a killer?"

"Objecton!"

"Sustained."

"Fine-- then you were never curious to know his name?"

Harley pulled her gaze up from the floor and let her eyes settle calmly on Iris Goldman, District Attorney for the City of Gotham. In her late forties, Goldman was not beautiful-- she had thin lips, very pale skin and narrow eyes. Her figure was willowy and she was well dressed with blunt, shoulder length black hair that was almost Egyptian-like. Calling her attractive would not have been a far stretch but she was certainly not beautiful.

Harley, on the other hand, was very beautiful. Not necessarly in a classical sense but when one looked at Harley Quinn, one was usually taken aback. Even under a half platinum, straggly mop of hair, blotchy skin and blood shot eyes it was clear that she was beautiful. Sad. But beautiful.

"Have you ever been in love Miss. Goldman?" She asked quietly, again leaning forward to speak into the microphone so the court could hear her.

Goldman looked taken by surprise, her counternance of fierce and reckless determination faltered for a moment-- just enough that instead of insisting Harley respond to the posed question she simply said, "Yes, of course," in a half intrigued, half contemptuous way. Her pale face and glassy eyes expressed the former, while her tone expressed the latter-- as if unable to remove any notion of negativity from her manner of speaking.

Harley offered her a tiny smile. "Clearly not, otherwise you would know that names are hardly important when you're in love."

The lawyer looked offended. "Your honor please--"

"In answer to your question my relationship to him was that I simply loved him. I didn't care about his name and additionally I am probably a very poor judge of his character because of how much I loved him."

His lawyer was staring at her in a semi-deranged manner-- mouth slack, one bushy gray eyebrow raised as he hovered over his legal pads. The Joker had finally turned his eyes on her-- and Harley instantly knew she had made a fantastic mistake when she met his gaze. Feral, possessive, intrigued and amused-- definitely four bad signs of what was to come if he ever got out of prison or Arkham-- wherever they decided to put him. Renewed interest in his harlequin.

From across the room Harley could not see the velvety green of his eyes-- she wished like hell for a moment that she was close enough to put her arms around him-- then she could feel like she was a part of him again-- whenever she'd done this before she'd normally been met with contempt. It wouldn't be any different now.

He smiled at her crookedly, one of his scars twitching upwards-- the effect was disturbing, more so than it would have been with the make up on. She preferred him with make up. Harley dropped her gaze back to the floor, not wishing to see him any more. Never again.

"No further questions your honor."

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Just felt like writing something else for a change. It's gonna be short-- just 6 chapters-- with Tarentino esque timing-- just a look at them being in love. Well-- Harley being in love anyway. If people like it i'll do more after the 6 chapters cause it's pretty open.

Please drop me a REVIEW!! They're so lovely to get and make me so happy. xx


	2. The Night Before

Note: Some people asked about the Harlequin. Basically my laptop freaked out and is getting fixed and the last chapter is on there! So we have to wait a little bit.

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A Fairly Honorable Defeat

2. The Night Before

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The MCU still was still in disarray even a few weeks after being partially blown to smithereens by the Joker. The building smelt of sawdust and the metallic residue of drills and hammers. It was bathed in eerie fluorescent lighting that came from the portable lamps the builders used-- set up on scaffolding like strange industrial stars.

Around 10pm Harley hesitantly climbed the steps to the building-- it was dark outside and the scaffolding surrounding the police station looked like some kind of evacuated exoskeleton without work men climbing around on it. It gave her a funny nervy sensation in her stomach and she almost turned back on herself-- but no-- this wasn't just about feelings it was about the law as well, and she needed to get it over with.

Harley sat down half way up the stairs and put her head in her hands, trying to clear her mind-- no clear thoughts were forming, there just seemed to be a buzz that excluded anything having to do with what she really should be thinking about-- what would she was say to him. To hope it would come naturally was folly. Not with his ability to play mind games and suss out the most hidden weaknesses.

He would probably start with how pathetic she looked-- ill and only half alive after a months and months of being burried under books in the library at Yale. Researching suited her. It meant she didn't have to think-- just read what other people said-- and of course at some point she was expected to write something publishable. In fact the publishers had rang her up that morning to ask what the progress was and--

--Damn it all! Concentrate at the problem at hand!

Harley sighed into her fists, rubbing her knuckles into her eyes and creating stars and stripes of colour behind her eyelids.

Perhaps she should just let him say what he would and then go from there.

He probably knew she was coming, his lawyer would have told him.

If not there was probably some other way he knew, some way that was as close to magic as a human could get-- he was the only person she'd ever met capable of such a thing.

A soft hand touched her shoulder and Harley had to suck down the shriek that flew to her lips. She whirled around and came face to face with Commissioner Gordon. He was staring down at her over the top of his square framed glasses, concern and apprehension knitting his brow together.

"Dr. Quinzel?" he asked kindly

Harley tried to relax and gather her senses but it wasn't very much use. She hadn't been calm or together in years. A healthy dose of Valium and Paxil on a daily basis made it slightly more attainable but she had some how run out of Valilum in the past two weeks and had not yet prescribed herself more. Oh, the perils of being a doctor.

"Yes," she said softly, shrinking away from his hand and climbing to her feet.

Commissioner Gordon gestured for her to follow him through the police station-- the smell, the odd lighting and the movement of half the desks to the opposite side of the building-- it created a slightly humorous bunched up affect-- it all positively smacked of the Joker and Harley found herself clutching her bag to her chest and chewing on her already raw, chaffed lips.

"We just had the holding cell refitted so we've been keeping um-- _him--_ here seen as we can't very well put him in county."

Harley hummed her understanding and lagged behind slightly as they approached a series of thick steel bars forming several cages with big, metallic, computerized locks. Harley thought it was ridiculous. This was no match for him, he'd be out in a jiffy if he wanted to. But then again she thought of him as magical despite herself so perhaps she wasn't giving the Commissioner enough credit.

"Oh, my, my, my."

The words came out low and thick and dangerous-- yet somehow almost sexy as well-- they sent a shudder down her spine and Harley froze momentarily-- clutching her bag even tighter than before. Shutting her eyes, she knew she did not want to do this. She could hear boots clicking on concrete almost threateningly.

Commissioner Gordon urged her forward and exchanged a few words of warning with the Joker before leaving them to it. Harley felt pathetic at being so utterly frightened of seeing him but she thought perhaps it was partially justified-- that wouldn't stop him from pointing it out of course, and it wouldn't stop her from continuing to be so pathetic and meek.

She never used to be meek.

Suddenly he seemed to burst into view like some kind of terrifying pop up book that changed the page-- empty cell one minute-- then the man or perhaps the monster who destroyed her life jetting into her line of sight the next-- a big red and brown smile containing no good will at all stretched across his corpse like face.

He practically flung himself at the bars, his fingers clutching steel while he held his back to look at her appraising, judging how she'd changed since he'd seen her last. Harley felt her face grow warm under his gaze and was sure pink blotches may have bloomed up on her cheeks. The only things that had changed about him in the year and a bit since she had left him for good were a different but similar suit, the hair was more green and slightly longer than before and at present his make up was faded and smeared across his face as if he'd not been allowed to wash in the week he'd been trapped in that cage.

Make up was caked in the creases of his eyes-- creases she had once found attractive but now simply drew black lines down his cheeks-- making him look like a tragic clown in some tragic play. If he ever knew that he would be furious. White make up and red lipstick were everywhere, including on the collar of his green printed shirt. He wore no tie and his waistcoat was undone and torn at the bottom left hem. Somehow, despite his appearance being a shambles he somehow had it together underneath-- a calm interior overriding the obvious.

And he was still handsome.

"_Sooo,"_ he hissed, drawing the word out longer than was necessary, "What brings you here tonight, _my darling_."

Harley kept her distance a good two yards from the bars despite an inclination to move closer. He had that evil leer on his face that usually hung behind every expression he was capable of making and it both scared and entrapped her.

"How are you," she said lamely.

He didn't bother with sarcasm regarding the obvious, "Generally, I'm fine."

"I'm to appear in court tomorrow."

"I know."

"They told you?" she managed to meet his eyes for the first time and quickly looked away when she saw nothing pleased or affectionate there. So it was going to be like that apparently.

"No."

She looked up again, a question clearly burning on her face.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the bars and licked his lips lavaciously. His fingers drummed against the thick metal a few times and he caught her eye again, that insolent and callous light in his expression still making him practically unbearable to look at. "I just knew you would come, _honey bunny_. You _always_ come."

Harley pursed her lips. She felt slightly nauseous and could really do with a drink or some Valium. Neither were available at present so she settled for at least play acting that she wasn't a pathetic emotional mess. "How?"

He gave her a pointed look, "Don't be an idiot."

She recoiled, feeling slightly hurt. After a brief pause in which he pulled away from the bars and slid his hands in his trouser pockets she continued, "Do you want to know what I'm going to say?"

"Not really, i'm sure it'll be agh-- fabulously intelligent."

He was being so standoffish. "You know you could get the death penalty for what you did-- and they're so scared of you they may just give you it so they don't have to deal with you again." she found her voice rising along with her frustration and anger-- needing some reaction other than apathy from him.

"You make it sound like what I did was such a bad thing."

"You killed people and were responsible for the death of many more!"

"Okay, look, uh-- if you're going to be like that, like_ one of them_ there is no point in you being here wasting my time." He came back to the bars and gripped them tighter than ever. Harley hung her head in exasperation. "Look at me" he demanded, his tone reverting back to that low, rasping rumble that made fear briefly trip across her chest.

Harley looked, biting her ragged lip and clutching her bag in her fist.

"Come closer," he ordered, keeping his voice low, but slightly less aggressive. His eyes creased with some concealed emotion and rubbed the black and white paint together-- creating a kinf of gray mass under his eyes. She couldn't think of anything other than that he looked half dead and yet more alive than ever. He had gotten so close to what he wanted and it was all taken away.

She moved slowly closer, knowing it was a bad idea but somehow feeling drawn in like she always was. He knew it to and she could see him fighting a smug smirk at her obedience. God, how did it end up like this-- how did she end up so addicted to someone like him, a monster like him.

She felt tears begin to burn at the back of her eyes but she cut it off, she did not want to cry in front of him. She would not be that pathetic-- meek and broken was one thing, letting him see her emotional damage-- well that was another thing-- that he would see as purely disgusting. Oh, how he'd ruined her.

"I shoudln't have come back," she mumbled and somehow he heard her. She had stopped moving forward a foot or so from the cage and stared at her feet then up at him incase he yelled again.

"I'm--" he seemed to struggle for a moment, his eyes twitching about her face as he kicked the ground with one booted foot. He gave a harsh, wheezing chuckle then at nothing in particular, taking her completely by surprise. His teeth were browner, more rotten than before to. She fought the urge to wrinkle her nose.

"I'm, you know, _glad_, I suppose. I do wish you had better timing-- like, baby even two weeks ago would have been good."

Harley's eyes flashed up to meet his-- she felt panic and anger tear through her like a fresh wound, "I did not come back for you and i am not your baby!" she snapped.

The Joker made a tisking sound and watched her silently as she struggled to regain her composure. He made a sound in the back of his throat, a kind of incomprehensible humming growl before shooting his hands through the bars and grabbing Harley by the wrists. He jerked her hard so she crashed into the cage, bruising her shoulder and knees with the sudden impact.

"Oh, I think you are, though."

She didn't scream, she just struggled against his hands, trying to pull free as he practically pinned her to him through the bars. His fingers dug painfully into her wrists, grinding the delicate bones together as he squeezed. He was thin and wirey and yet somehow she always underestimated the hidden strength. The fact that he used to be able to fully lift her up when they-- well, better not to think about that, she determined, shaking her head.

He was so close to her, she could feel stale breath against her cheek. It smelled like his morning breath-- not especially plesant yet disturbingly familiar. "I think you know you are too," he continued in a low hiss so as not to alert Gordon.

"Let me go or I'll scream." she whispered

"Scream and I'll cut your tongue out the next time i get a chance," his tone was deadly serious and Harley knew he was telling the truth. She clamped her mouth shut and pulled as far away from him as she could though still pinned to the bars.

"What do you want," she whimpered meekly, no longer having the emotional energy to deal with him anymore.

"Many things," he sighed melodramatically, "I want to know a uh, _a lot_ of things about you, but that can wait." he squeezed her left wrist tighter making her squeak and squirm against the bars.

"I want something to the effect of um, this right now." To Harley's surprise he practically smashed his forehead onto the bars, and she knew he was going to be in pain for a while later. He released one of her arms and grabbed the back of her head, pulling it into the bars so that her cheek crushed painfully against the metal. And then his mouth was on top of hers. Kissing her lips, prodding her mouth open with his tongue, nuzzling her cheek and holding her tightly to his face in a vice like grip that she couldn't escape from.

At last Harley relaxed her lips and they shared two kisses before he released her and then pushed her away hard. Harley landed on her backside on the concrete floor, glaring up at him with tears once again standing out in her eyes. Her face felt flushed and she knew she wouldn't be able to hold back from crying this time. Big, heaving, pathetic sobs, she knew they were coming.

"You bastard," she spat viciously.

The Joker shrugged and put one hand in his trouser pocket, leaning against the cage casually. "You're the one who came back, baby. Not me." He quirked her eyebrows at her as she crawled to her feet, grinning maliciously.

"I did not come back for you!" she shouted, no longer caring if Gordon came running. She heaved her bag up onto her arm, blinded by unshed tears she wanted to hit him but could only glare and heave angry breaths as she prepared to storm off. She was about to add something to the effect of that she would make sure he was locked up for life when he cut her off.

He pouted and tucked that evil leer away for a moment, seeming relatively close to normal, or as close as he was capable of coming anyway. "Whats the matter, don't you love me anymore?"

She stared at him vacantly. If it was possible she felt her bones grow cold-- something deep inside of her seemed to frost over and mutate into an immovable solid object that rooted her to the spot. Harley felt a twitch run through her shoulders. He was giving her a knowing look that made her feel even worse if possible.

"Do you still love me?" she managed to croak out-- the words barely audible.

The Joker snickered evilly at her and rapped on the bars a few times before speaking. "I never said I loved you, doll."

Harley's stomach literally fell to her feat-- not because she loved him and he didn't love her back-- but suddenly all the stress, all the trauma, all the medication, the hospitals, the isolation, the meditation on the meaning of life with out him-- all of it suddenly seemed completely and utterly pointless. He never loved her. He had ruined her and he didn't even give a damn about her.

A tear made its way down her cheek as she silently turned around to leave. She felt cold and shakey, and oddly light headed as she stumbled out of the police station. He didn't awknowledge her leaving, he didn't even laugh or call out something patronizing to her retreating back. Gordon attempted to stop her but she started to run, pressing her back of her hand to her mouth to keep from sobbing out loud at her foolishness.

He had ruined her and he never even loved her.

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Note: I'm glad some people like it! Thank you to:

**Maria:** Frankly I think if Harley was as stupid or bimbo-ish or bland as she sometimes is that the Joker would bother with her, you know? So i'm glad you like her! Plus, ya know, gotta make it work with Heath Ledger's Joker. x

**Bri:** Aww, thanks honey. Mary Sue's are boring as shit. Why would you write about a character who is perfect? So boring. The next Harlequin chapter is pretty much ready its just on my computer that's in the shop so hopefully it'll be up at some point soon!

**Mournsong:** Just FYI, you're like my favorite reviewer of all time! That review you left me for The Harlequin was the longest, most helpful thing ever. I'm working on going back to fix typos but i'm so impatient... Yeah, and as for Harley she's a bit more tragic in this one-- not in like a oh woe is me my Dad beat me! But in a like, Goddamnit being in love with this person is exhausting and terrible but I can't help it so I'm going to let him drag me along. Also, it's going to stretch over a long period of time so ya know, we get to see that going down.

**ForensicPhotographer711**: Yeah-- it's taken a lot of daydreaming at work to figure out how to make him half of a romance. Cause he is a horrible person, lets face it.

**Poison Running Through My Veins**: Ooh, that's nice to hear! Refreshing is good-- I think with the Harlequin people stopped reading it pretty quickly cause of the whole 'in a hospital' element. But yep, thanks, I'm so glad you like it! I'm glad my writing's up to par as well...

**KymmiV**: Well, you'll just have to wait and see! There's all kind of glimpses into the past-- Harley wasn't always as broken as she is here. You know, love is a terrible thing. It can be amazing but it can absolutely destroy you as well.

Everyone else please take a minute to drop a REVIEW!! They make me ever so happy!


	3. The Nihilist

Note: the idea is not so much to tell an origin story so much as snippits from their relationship. If I had to guess, I would say prior to the whole taking out half of Gotham thing the Joker was a kind of drifter.

Even if he isn't technically insane later, he hasn't lost the plot quite some much as he will do. He would have been a little bit reasonable. And then gone mad-- but never quite normal obv.

They'd both be roughly 21 here.

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A Fairly Honorable Defeat

3. The Nihilist

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Seven years earlier...

Harley sighed heavily and clanked her handcuff against the radiator she was chained to. She was so bored. For nearly seven hours she'd been sitting in a wobbly folding chair, her left hand attached to the radiator while various members of the mob came in to question and threaten her. She was not afraid, not of their threats or of the actuality of the situation-- the fact was she knew it would happen at some point-- she was just surprised it hadn't been sooner.

The room was only lit by a few small lamps that filled the space with a warm glow that nearly eliminated the decidedly sinister air of the place. A pool table took up most of the middle of the room-- a few balls scattered around the green felt surface along with an overflowing ash tray and an abandoned pair of black ray band sunglasses. The air stank of cigarettes and whisky-- a long bar across the back wall was lined with every imaginable type of alcohol and various shapes of glasses. The only word to really describe the room was seedy-- seedy and dirty.

The heavy brass door handle jiggled suddenly as someone put a key in the lock and let themselves in. It was Lucio-- a short squat man with tanned skin and a thick face full of awkward sun spots-- he was rolling a cigarette and not paying attention to Harley.

"So, what exactly is going to happen to me-- am I going to just sit here for the rest of my life?" she asked impatiently. She was terribly bored and was absolutely aching for something to happen-- anything, even if it involved her potential death-- well, perhaps not that, but something exciting was surely bound to happen soon.

All they had done so far was tell her in varying and uncreative degrees of menace that her Father owed them money and they were waiting for him to pay up--if he didn't they were going to kill her and then they were going to kill him. It would seem they had expected her to burst into tears and beg for mercy but instead Harley just nodded vacantly and asked if she could have a whiskey on the rocks from the bar. They had said no.

Lucio gave her a dirty look and finished rolling his cigarette, "You're better off keeping your mouth shut-- your sonofabitch Father hasn't paid us yet-- you'd better hope he loves you little girl." He moved to the bar and grabbed a bottle of scotch to pour himself a glass.

Harley rolled her eyes but said nothing. She drummed her fingers against the top of the radiator, watching as Lucio took a long sip of his drink. Just as she was about to request a drink again the door opened and two more men trouped in-- one was Lucio's 'associate' Bez and the other man she couldn't quite see as he lingered in the half darkness of the hall.

"Drink, Bez?"

Bez nodded solemnly at Lucio and then fixed Harley with a stare that was meant to intimidate. She stared back, her small pert mouth pulled into a straight line.

"We haven't got any money yet." He told her flatly. Behind him Lucio approached with two glasses in hand and he snickered at Harley, amused that she was now going to die apparently.

"So does that mean you're going to kill me now?" She asked listlessly.

"No."

Harley raised her eyebrows in mild surprise as Bez snapped his fingers and then quickly left the room with Lucio trailing after him. She sighed and looked at the bar, wondering if she could some how reach the bottle of Glenfidditch Scotch if she made some kind of rope harness or similar out of her jumper.

The door closed with a sharp snap, pulling her attention back to the situation at hand. She turned to see a man she had not met before leaning against the closed door, watching her curiously. Though she could not make out his face in the shadows there was something about his posture that was decidedly off putting. One shoulder was hunched slightly higher than the other. His ankles were crossed as he leaned against the door and his hands were clasped stiffly behind his back. He cocked his head to the side farther than one would naturally attempt then moved into the light of one of the small lamps.

Harley was surprised at how young and attractive he was for her potential murderer. The lamps created shadows that played romantically across the planes of his heart shaped face. He wore his hair slightly long, the dirty blonde curls covered his ears and barely brushed the collar of his white, open neck shirt. His nose was straight and even and his eyes were bright, almost dancing with some hidden excitement that made them crinkle up in the corners. Early laugh lines, maybe. He appeared to be wearing a tiny bit of black eyeshadow or liner underneath his eyes-- just enough to make him look ill rather than made up like Robert Smith. His cheekbones were high and hollow and as he watched her he seemed to be holding back from giggling out loud-- or perhaps that was just how he held his face-- eyes wide, chewing on his lips anxiously.

He seemed to slink rather than walk as he crossed the room; slow, uneven steps as if he were drunk or about to fall over his own feet. Something cat like. His silence was unnerving and she could tell he was silently appraising her with a slanted smirk stretched across his face. For the first time since being abducted Harley felt a shiver of fear run through her.

"Hello," she said coldly.

He raised his eyebrows and hopped up on the pool table, kicking his feet and cocking his head to the side at an unnatural angle. She glanced down at his swinging legs-- he wore dark blue skinny jeans that clung to boney ankles and filthy red converse sneakers. "Hey there," he said, drawing her attention back to his face.

His voice was soft and unmistakably nasal.

"Are you going to kill me?"

He held back a snort of laughter, "Do you uh--want me to?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Ahh-- I see," he said evasively, nodding so his face was momentarily covered in shadow again-- "How very ahm-- _nihilistic_ of you."

She pressed her lips together into a thin line and then said, "Well, you'll kill me regardless of what I say. Ergo, it doesn't matter."

"Nothing matters much, does it." He agreed and pulled his feet up on the table so he was sitting indian style-- then shifted to retrieve something from a back pocket. Harley watched with barely concealed intrigue as he pulled out a small knife, the blade glinting gently in the dull lamp light. She felt her heart sink and the confidence she'd been clinging to began to slowly seep out of her.

"Well, I'm just going to need a um-- little something from you," he told her politely.

"Like what?"

"Like a finger--"

Harley blanched and she instinctively grasped both hands to her chest, "A finger?!" She exclaimed.

"As proof-- you know, _'we've got your daughter and we're not messing around_' kind of thing." He said the last part of the sentence in a funny voice as if he didn't really believe it.

"So, your job is what-- to cut off people's fingers for the mob?"

He laughed out loud as if he'd been holding back for quite a while. His lips curled up to reveal yellowed teeth that stood out against the pale angles of his face. It seemed strange for a person so young and attractive to have yellow teeth-- perhaps he was a chain smoker?

Harley kept her hands clasped to her chest, pulling the handcuffs as far as they would allow her. She didn't know what to say so opted for appealing to is humanity as bravely as possible. She coughed. "Don't you feel in the least bit guilty about cutting off fingers and killing people for money?"

He looked thoughtful and ran a hand through his curly blonde hair. "No, no, no," he said in a sing song voice, "It doesn't matter, remember?"

Harley sighed, expelling all the air from her lungs. "I think its common sense that murdering, stealing and cutting off bits of people is wrong and should induce guilt."

Raising his eyebrows, the strange finger-cutting-off-man leaned forward with interest, "No they're not-- there's no such thing as right or wrong-- right and wrong, good and evil, the moral and the _sinful_-- they're all made up notions to get you to act like a good little worker bee. Are you a little worker bee?" His tone was patronizing.

"No," Harley said indignantly, "I would never profess to be completely good or moral-- that's irrational."

"Of course it is," he agreed with a self satisfied smirk, "Because we are by nature uhm--not good people. We're selfish, we're greedy, we're ruthless. That's our nature-- goodness is a made up concept that society imposes on us."

"Oh God," Harley groaned, "You're one of those society controls and defines us Big Brother fearing types then? No wonder you cut of people's fingers for money."

"No, you're the Nihilist, remember?" he snickered, "I don't think societal morals are necessarily purposefully imposed, it's just the way it happened as people became supposedly civilized. Civilization needs this over perpetuated notion of goodness to keep itself together when its against nature." This was all said with an air of self importance and disgust.

"So human nature is evil?" Harley asked skeptically, not quite able to believe she was having a philosophical discussion about human nature with a potential sociopath. She did her best to cross her arms considering she was still attached to the radiator.

The man shook his head, "Evil is a term loosely applied to anything that isn't goodness or morality. Nothing is that definite, its only purpose served is part in parcel to define good. It's a language term, not a real thing."

Harley scoffed, "So you work with the mob because the world is a barren, pointless place and you may as well be a bad person and get paid for it since that's your nature anyway?" she shook her head, "that's called rationalizing greed and lack of morals."

Surprise mixed with delight flashed across his features, "What is your name?"

One of her eyebrows arched suspiciously, "Harley Quinzel," she answered incredulously. "What's yours?"

He ignored her. "Harley Quinn?" He seemed unabashedly pleased and sat up a bit straighter, his smile widening, showing off those yellowed teeth again. "Like Harlequin?"

"Quinzel," she corrected with a touch of irritation.

Again he ignored her, still sitting up cheerfully and playing with his knife. He spun it around in the palm of one hand like she'd seen drummers do with their sticks. He seemed unable to sit still, almost twitchy. "So, ah, what do you do?"

Becoming exasperated Harley folded her hands in her lap and tried not to look as annoyed as she felt-- hoping perhaps he would change his mind about removing a finger if she was nice. "I'm a student-- I study psychology."

"You don't seem afraid of me."

"Are most people?"

"Eventually. Uhm, _apparently_ I'm unsettling."

"I can see that."

"That isn't an especially nice thing to say," he said, looking up at her from under his eyelashes.

She pursed her lips, "Sorry."

He waved her off, "It's alright. So ahm-- Miss Harley Quinn, you believe in the goodness of human nature? That we're all one big loving bunch?"

Harley thought how best to reply, "I just don't think that-- I mean, even if you want to say that morals are created by society, and that society is what dictates made up concepts of good and evil and all of that-- I don't think that means we should act upon it. Being civilized has worked out pretty well."

"That's incredibly naive," he said snidely, raising an eyebrow and pursing his lips as if disappointed in her, "Being civilized is a joke-- its not real or honest or true. I mean, look, we're all rightfully selfish and we're fully entitled to act on that. We're completely alone-- you get a good 80 years if you're lucky and then you're done. Its so brief and pointless-- you come into the world alone and you leave it alone."

"How does that justify murder?"

"Well for a start it makes a point as to how um--_ delicate_ and pointless life is. There one minute then zip! Gone the next. It's a uhm, you know a statement. Serves a purpose. The guilt part, that's fake too. Plus, since we're the only things that really matter to ourselves its like why not, you know."

"Guilt over killing someone isn't fake-- maybe it's not guilt but if you don't feel guilty about killing people then you're a sociopath, not an enlightened being-- and we're not alone."

"Look if it serves a purpose or it seems right at the time then you should do it regardless of what you're supposed to do-- We're all narcissists at the end of the day. We think we're fabulous, we've got this civilization. It's all a big joke-- a chaotic ruthless life is much more honest and real." He paused and gravely added, "And I'm _not_ a sociopath."

"What about love? Is that something we've made up too?"

He sucked on the inside of his cheek, "Yes. Ahm-- Probably. I think it's relatively unimportant all things considered."

"Considering what?" she asked incredulously.

"We're alone."

"Don't you know what love is? It's about not being alone and making a connection with someone. It's something that gives meaning and it has nothing to do with society. Haven't you ever loved anything?"

His eyes narrowed considerably and Harley was suddenly very much aware of the knife he was still playing with. She felt she had perhaps crossed a line. He was clearly a disturbed, negative person who felt no guilt at killing or mutilating people and she'd just insulted him. Much to her distress he replied coldly:

"Well, considering i don't feel guilt at um-- murdering people I would say I'm quite exceptional from the normal people-- the people out there-- So no, i probably haven't loved anything. Ever. And I wouldn't want to. It's not right, it's just as bad as believing in good."

"Being in love is one of the most honest things a person can feel." Harley said softly, not sure why she was continuing when he was staring at her as if he was about to lunge, "Are you happy?"

Instead of answering he hopped off the table and strode over to her, extending his hand to her. Amusement and anger warred in the depths of his eyes as Harley slowly and warily put her hand in his. He flipped out the knife again. Harley realized what he was about to do violently tried to twist her hand out of his grip as panic took hold. She could only manage a sputtering protestments as he held her small white hand in his own, almost crushing the delicate bones and making her writhe in her seat.

"Stop it," he ordered and Harley immeadiately stopped squirming as if on instinct.

Their eyes met and Harley didn't breathe for a minute as she gazed into dark green orbs that held a seriousness and depth that instantly and perturbingly calmed her fear. She trusted him. She swallowed heavily and tried to remember to breathe while the seriousness that clenched his face faded back to good natured cheer. She let her hand go slack and he reached into his pocket to pull out a white handkerchief.

"What are you--"

"Shh." He cut her off and returned his intense concentration to her hand as if it were the single most important thing in the world. He slowly brought the blade of the knife to her palm and pressed the sharp edge into her flesh. Harley bit down on her lip to refrain from crying out but couldn't stop a whimper from escaping her lips.

One corner of his mouth twitched up at the side as he made a shallow cut about two inches long in her palm and then soaked up the blood with the handkerchief. She thought he would tie it around her hand but instead he folded it into a small triangle and stuffed it into his pocket. He then tore off a strip of white cotton from the bottom of his shirt and made a make shift bandage, wrapping it several time around her hand.

"Why--"

He shrugged, "Blood will do. Fingers are so um-- _cliche_."

"I can see that." Harley nodded, distracted by her wounded, bleeding hand.

He gave her a significant look, his eyebrows slightly raised so his forehead and eyes crinkled up again. "You uhm--see a lot of things, don't you." He reached into his pocket to fetch a small key and then leaned over her to unlock her from the radiator.

Harley frowned, confused. "Are you letting me go?"

He sucked on the inside of his cheek, "Yes."

"Won't you get in trouble?" she asked, standing up and rubbing her chaffed wrist.

"I'm not overly um-- concerned with that. I'm no more one of them than you are."

"What are you then?"

"Nothing-- I'm absolutely nothing."

Her eyebrows knitted together in a frown but she could think of nothing to say. He put a hand on her shoulder, it was freezing cold even through her blouse. They shared another look and Harley could not help feeling like something strange and significant was happening with this complete stranger.

"You'll be seeing me again, Harley Quinn."

x

Note: Well, how's it going? Difficult to follow at all? Did the Joker seem in character for what he may have been like before he was really The Joker? Ie: not sane or normal but not a painted up loon.

Thank yous:

**Hellion Kitty Cat**: Thanks hon, good to know its caught your eye! Thanks for dropping me a review. I love em'.

**KimmiV:** The relationship is of course the most important and difficult part. Shallow relationships are boring-- I think Harley and the Joker are like the definition of "It's complicated". So that's what I'm aiming for. :-)

**Sayuri Stang:** I'm so glad you like it! Interesting is exactly what i'm going for!

**Mournsong:** You will indeed find out the scars soon ;) I like the idea of neither of them being able to control themselves when it comes to one another. Its the same intense co-dependance but it comes out in different ways. In her she lets him destroy her because she loves him endlessly-- for him he does everything he can to avoid those feelings because they are so against his nature. So he treats her terribly because he's, well, an evil bastard, lts face it! And he is scary. In this chapter I wanted him to have the fringes of being scary but not entirely because he hasn't quite reached the place where he is fully and totally evil. Also, it isn't like Harley falls in love with him pre-total epitome of evil and then can't stop herself when he goes that way. That's boring. Its that evilness that is lurking, even when he's remotely normal that draws her in. Wow. Long reply. :-) x

**Almi123:** Its true, she did. But if she was weak and pathetic then he wouldn't have cared about her anyway. It was like a game.

And also thank you to everyone who added my stories to your favorite's list or story alerts. Its so awesome of you all!

If you'd be kind of enough to leave me another **review** I'd love it! They're so encouraging! x


	4. The Voice

A Fairly Honorable Defeat

4. The Voice

x

When Harley returned to her hotel she found the silence of her room almost deafening after a day of paparazzi, lawyers, news teams, doctors, judges, cops-- anyone who could get their hands on her. It would seem that as the only person with any idea who the Joker was she was suddenly the most interesting individual on the planet. What is he like? Is he insane? Is he good in bed? Did you really love him? How did you meat? Did he beat you? Were you forced into the relationship? How could you love such a monster?!

She hadn't responded, simply kept her mouth shut and her head down until the day was finally over and she could return to the solitude of her room. They had only requested she come to Gotham for a week to sit in on the trial-- with a potential need to call her back down from New Haven. She agreed reluctantly but didn't really have much choice in the matter. Now she just wanted the week to be over.

Harley dropped down on the bed and examined her watch-- it was nearly 7.30pm. She decided to take a shower and order room service-- she had absolutely no inclination to leave the hotel room but could not handle the quiet. Finding the channel selector, she turned the television up as loudly as possible on a non news channel-- some sitcom with a laugh track-- before climbing into the shower.

The water was scalding, hot enough to help forget about her day, to remove the traces of him from the night before, to concentrate on anything other than memories and feelings. Like her book-- _Reassessing Bipolar Personality Disorder Type II and Common Theraputic Errors in Treatment_. She was staying as far away from chaos theory and the criminally insane as humanly possible. Her new area of expertise would be teenage girls and couples, she'd decided. New England was nice, it was calm, it was safe. She would open a practice in a few years, maybe settle down and get married-- or maybe not. Who could possibly know.

This. This thing with him. That she could not do. Not at all.

Harley climbed out of the shower and towel dried her hair. She examined the blonde pieces at the end that she had yet to cut off-- platinum blonde had suited her. Like Debbie Harry, it had been chic and fun and sexy. Now, at the age of 27 the idea of having chic, sexy hair was completely beyond her. Now she had lank, mousy hair that she rarely paid any attention to other than to put up in a careless bun.

She padded back into the bedroom and pulled on pajamas, then turned the volume of the TV down slightly so as not to wake the other Holiday Inn guests, and climbed into the bed. The mattress was awkward. She adjusted herself and the pillows when the news came on. The top story was obviously the Joker's trial. Harley's head snapped up and she fumbled for the channel selector, in no mood to be watching something about him. The picture they showed was from a CCTV camera-- he was grinning devilishly, hamming it up for the police. Harley changed the channel fast before she had to see any more of him.

It was bad enough having to stare at the back of his head for the next four days-- let alone seeing him made up in full Joker regalia mid-bank robbery. Not even that, but mid bank robbery of money he would inevitably throw in the harbour, or burn, or do God knows what else with in the name of chaos and anarchy. For the sake of living honestly without any limitations, and to make people realize how inane and pointless their existence was. That was what he had wanted last time she'd been around anyway. His ability to argue philosophy for one who had left school at 15 years of age was remarkable. It was as if he'd some how absorbed Kant, Nietzsche, Sartre, Foucault, Barthes, and God knows who else without ever opening a book.

Harley clenched her fists and resolved not to think about him anymore that night-- and no more ever again unless she had to. Perhaps she could get out of this trial one way or another. She had to interview with the police, the judge and the lawyers the next day. They wanted to know as much as possible about the Joker's past before they went back into court. Harley did not know what she would say.

Think about your book damnit! Family practice in New Haven! A Lovely little cottage with roses climbing up a trellis, a loving husband, a couple of beautiful children and perhaps a little dog or something of that sort. She shut her eyes and allowed herself to imagine the life she could have had-- no the life she could still have. She could.

The phone rang. Harley's eyes snapped open at the shrill tone and she looked down at the small bedside telephone. A red light was flashing which she knew meant it was reception.

"Hello?"

There was a pause, "Hello, darling."

Harley nearly dropped the receiver. Her breath caught in her throat and she found she couldn't form words. She could only release a rattling gasp that made him snicker. "Where-- where are you calling me from?" she managed to stammer at last.

The Joker sighed and she could practically hear him rolling his eyes, "Oh, you know, my lovely little digs down here at MCU. I swiped Gordon's phone-- classy little thing it is."

"What do you want?" She demanded.

"I just wanted a _chat_," he said, feigning being hurt by her harsh words, "Why is that so much to ask?"

"What do you want?" She repeated, sounding more shrill this time.

There was another pause while he thought and Harley knew that could not be a good sign. "I'm curious about something you said today, dollface," he said at last, casual and callous as always as if nothing mattered. Nothing did matter to him apparently.

"Why'd you lie for me, sweetness?"

"I didn't lie."

"You did _a bit_."

"No, I didn't. I meant everything I said even if I find it incredibly hard to believe that I--"

He snorted, cutting off her tirade "That letter--um--I don't _recall_--"

"Oh don't worry," Harley said spitefully, "Next time I'll make sure to elaborate that threatening to cut me up into little pieces translates to 'I Miss You' in your head. Not only that but your idea of a long term relationship is--"

"I'm _bored_," he cut her off again. "You're _boring_ me. Lets talk about-- something else."

Harley let out a long breath and put her hand to her forehead. She hated the way he put a strange emphasis on certain words. It was disconcerting and it used to intrigue her-- something she didn't want to relate to him anymore. "No."

He ignored her. And Harley hated herself for not just slamming the receiver down. She was curious, dreadfully curious.

"So how is uhm-- life treating you these days, _sweetheart_?"

She shut here eyes, trying to think of a solution or what was the reasonable thing to do. There was no reasonable thing to do with him. Nothing. "I'm--" she faltered, unable to complete her thought. She could neither tell him about her project nor tell him to go to hell. Instead she settled for a middle ground and went with the simple. "Fine."

"Fine, hmmm?" he repeated sarcastically, "Don't miss playing look out?"

"You are such a bastard."

"And yet that's part of what you _love _about me," he said in a sing song voice.

Harley felt her blood boil, anger curled up and down her arms and she wanted to hit something, "I do not love you."

"Oh, okay. But you do miss me, don't you? I think I might shed a tear if you don't miss me at least."

"Look," Harley sighed and ran her fingers through her still wet hair, "You--I don't know what you want from me anymore." She paused. "Not that it matters, you'll be going to jail for the rest of your life soon enough."

"Doubtful," he said ominously.

"What does that mean?"

"Anyway, now that you're back there's more _incentive_ not be in the joint for however many years."

"I am not back!"

He chuckled and said in a low voice, "You know, I almost forgot how much fun it is to wind you up like this-- I don't have to do much and you go craaazy."

"You are unbelievable, you know that."

"Hmmm, I know, I _know._ You know what I'm thinking about now?"

"What? I mean, look you can't--"

"I'm thinking about all the other fun _things _I used to do to you that made you go _crazy_. Remember how I'd put my mouth on your--"

"Stop!" She shrieked, "Stop acting as if everything is normal-- you almost destroyed Gotham-- you killed so many innocent people!" Tears began to well up in the corners of her eyes and emotion filled her voice as she shouted down the phone. "You're hardly human anymore and you used me! For years you used me as something normal to hold on to, to keep yourself remotely attached to reality and now you're just-- I don't even know what you are but it's terrible!"

"Stop crying, it's weak," he ordered, sounding on the verge of anger compared to his earlier carefree tone, "You aren't weak and you aren't like these people-- stop acting like it."

"The fact that I cared for you makes me feel sick, physically sick. I must be insane you're--"

"_STOP_." He shouted with such ferocity that Harley promptly clamped her mouth shut. Just a phone call. It was just a phone call. All she had to do was put down the receiver but she couldn't.

"Stop it," his voice was slightly quieter, "You shouldn't have left."

"You put me in the hospital!"

"Why is that important?"

"You are insane if you don't comprehend that!"

"You're stronger than that."

"I'm human," she gasped, "I don't know what you are or what you think I am. But I don't-- I don't want any part of it."

He was quiet for a moment. Then sighed and laughed and clicked his lips, "You're uh-- completely pathetic. And you're in denial,_ sweetness_."

The phone went dead and Harley slowly lowered the receiver. She left it off the hook in case he decided to call back. She curled up into a the fetal position and forced herself to think about cottages and children and family practices. Not deranged clowns who put their lovers in the hospital and murder mayors and judges. No, she wanted a white picket fence and a little dog named Skipper. Not the Joker. Anything but the Joker.

x x x x

Please all you lovlies review! The Harlequin is on hold until my computer is fixed. Currently am writing this in something called 'Word Pad' which is a massive pain in the ass.

So yes, drop me a line so it'll be worth it a little bit. xx


	5. The Late Night Visitor

Note: one of the theories of this story is that the joker wasn't always a really horrible person. He was never nice or really capable of compassion, but he was a bit more human. So, this is when he and harley first start to notice each other. Before he goes from being the slightly twisted bank robber to the villainous terrorist. There is a difference you know.

x

A Fairly Honorable Defeat

5. The Late Night Visitor

Harley could feel her eyes beginning to shut as the desire to sleep became ever more present. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes, the words on the page in front of her began to blur and she found she was highlighting random sections rather than anything that would be potentially helpful for her mid term. Medical school was not as bad as she was expecting it too be. Still in her first year, Harley was catching on quickly to what being a doctor was really going to be like-- it just seemed that there was a long stretch ahead before she would actually be treating patients as a psychiatrist.

Neuroimaging studies have demonstrated anatomical abnormalities in patients with schizophrenia. Bilateral ventriculomegaly and decreased brain volume exist in medial temporal areas such as the hippocampus and amygdala---

Her head snapped up as she started to fall asleep again. Deciding it was futile Harley heaved the cover of the massive medical text closed and left the volume on her desk. She climbed into bed and looked forward to being able to sleep in the next morning with absolutely no classes for a whole week. It would be heaven, she thought, smiling to herself.

Despite being exhausted Harley found her mind creeping to one of its' favorite topics lately-- especially late at night when it didn't seem to count or seem so bad to be thinking about him. The man with no name that had set her free from the mob. The nihilistic anarchist with the sweet little face-- Harley had a crush on a murderer. She bit her lip and couldn't help but smile.

He'd said he'd see her again and he had been telling the truth. About three months after being released, albeit with a massive scar on her left hand Harley had run into him at a bank-- he'd been robbing the bank at the time, of course, but that didn't make the surprise any less enjoyable.

He had been with about four other men-- none of them had bothered to wear masks and he was wearing almost the identical thing he'd been wearing the last time she'd met him-- dark blue skinny jeans, red converse sneakers and a plain, open neck shirt. When the bank robbers had started shooting and shouting Harley had dropped to the ground along with everyone else, completely shocked that she had the misfortune of being in the middle of a bank robbery. The woman at the counter who had been serving her started to panic and pushed the silent alarm. It gave Harley very little reassurance to know that the police would soon be arriving-- she didn't care about the money, she cared about not dying!

Then he'd come jogging passed her, up to to the terrified teller woman; gun dangling in one hand black bag swinging in the other. "Hi," he'd said sweetly to the woman, offering a charming grin. "It'd be swell if you could just direct me to your vault."

She stared open mouthed at him, not able to do much but quiver.

Kneeling on the floor with her hands over her head, Harley found herself speaking up, "They're-- They're over there-- to your left."

He looked down at her, swinging the gun in her direction and almost took a step back when he saw her, "Well, well, well," he couldn't seem to keep the pleased grin off his face. "Look what we have here."

Her eyes shot open wide, "You--You!" was all she could say, aware that she sounded stupid.

"Me," he agreed, then turned around in the direction she'd pointed him in. Harley stared after him, her hands no longer on her head and now drawing herself up to her full height.

"What part of hands on your head don't you understand, girlie!" One of the other bank robbers decked her right across the face, catching her eye. Harley shrieked and fell down on the marble floor, clutching her face. She'd never been hit before and it stung viciously. She knew she would get a black eye out of it.

The bank robbers finished collecting money-- no one got shot or hurt other than Harley and they backed out of the bank before the police could come. Harley saw the strange young man look at her briefly before leaving the building. Without thinking she'd stood up and ran after him. A couple of people gasped as she sprinted out of the bank and down the stairs. They were all hastily loading the bags of cash into a van outside the curb.

"Wait!" she called, thudding up to the van.

He turned around to look at her quizzically, "Now's not the best time, doll."

"I know-- I just-- I don't even know your name and you saved me!" She exclaimed. "Don't you remember?"

"You're uh-- you're welcome," he said with a snicker, then reached towards her and touched the side of her face genially, "Ooh, what happened there," he cringed. He gave her another crooked smirk then climbed into the van and disappeared down the road. The cops arrived only moments later.

Harley had gotten an impressive black eye out of the ordeal. The next time she saw him had been about a month later when she'd come home to him sitting on her couch eating low fat ice cream and watching reruns of Blossom. When she'd screamed at the sight of him he simply looked up at her and frowned, "Nice to see you too, doll."

"You're-- but why are you-- you--" she stammered, gesturing violently between him, the ice cream and the television. "Why are you here?"

He put the lid back on the ice cream and moved into her kitchen, prompting Harley to follow dumbly. "Well," he said conversationally, "I um-- need somewhere to hide-- just for tonight. You seemed like a safe bet."

"A safe bet? she repeated dully, taking in the fact that he was once again wearing the now tatty dark blue skinny jeans and red sneakers, but had now changed into a gray v neck shirt. It showed off an impressive set of collarbones and a pale chest. "What did you do? Who are you hiding from?" She demended.

"The mob," he replied bluntly, shutting her freezer door. "They're not happy with me right now."

Harley came into the kitchen to stand next to him, her arms crossed petulantly. Up close she could see thin streaks of kohl under his eyes, giving a dramatic or almost theatrical air to his every expression. When he smirked at her knowingly the eyes seemed to drill right through her.

Harley crossed her arms obstinately, "And what if I say you can't stay here?"

He considered her briefly and then shrugged, "You won't say no," he said with a touch of arrogance to his voice.

"I hardly know you other than that you're a bank robbing finger cutting off murderer!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms out in a wide, exasperated gesture. "I think those are pretty good grounds for asking you to leave!"

"Hmm." He stared at her face for a moment and then walked slowly towards her. Harley backed into the sink, suddenly worried she pushed too far again as those black eyes narrowed. He grabbed her by the hair and by the neck, and from nowhere he produced a small, wide knife that she felt press into her throat. She gasped and leant her head back.

His handsome face distorted eerily as he watched her react to the blade, "If you say no or cause any more problems for me I'm just going to have to do something about it, right?"

"Right," she whispered hoarsely.

"So, no police calling, no screaming, no anything like that, okay?"

"Okay."

"Good," he released her and handed her a kitchen towel to absorb the blood that was trickling down the side of her neck. She snatched it out of his hand, unable to hold back from glaring daggers at him.

After that he'd developed a habit of showing up roughly once a month when it suited him. Harley wasn't sure if she was one of many young ladies whom he used as a safe house but she didn't really care. There was something secretive and thrilling about harboring a fugitive, even if it was illegal and morally unsound. Each time he showed up Harley couldn't help but think he was looking increasingly ill. Thinner, sccragglier, always in the same clothes though at one point the shoes changed to a new pair of red converse that were already dirty but didn't have space for his feet to poke out-- there were curious brown stains on the plastic toes. Harley didn't want to ask if it was blood because he'd knicked them off someone he'd killed.

Even so, even when he threatened her or was harsh or rude or aloof or even frightening, the dangerous, thrilling prospect of allowing a criminal to stay on her couch because the mob or the police where after him was slightly addictive. The first time they didn't talk very much, Harley would go in her room and study and leave him to do whatever he wanted throughout the rest of the flat so long as he didn't steal anything. The next morning he was gone and so was the second volume of Proust's 'Within a Budding Grove'. The first volume, 'Swann's Way' lay on the kitchen table, it appeared he'd read the entire thing in the night before. Harley was impressed.

The second time, a few weeks later he had a black eye and a swollen lip but only wanted to talk about Proust while Harley held some ice on his face.

"What did you do to yourself?" she asked, cringing as some dried blood flaked off and fell on her kitchen table.

He ignored her and went on about time, memory and sensation. At some point he seemed to realize what that he was talking without holding himself back in front of her and it instantly set him on edge. She found that intriguing to say the least. The Nihilist who doesn't believe in love is afraid to open up to almost complete strangers in regard to his newly established love of Marcel Proust.

Subsequent visits usually involved some kind of injury and unknown reason for needing a place to hide. She developed a fondness for her adorably gangly yet terrifyingly mad little secret and after the first few months of playing safehouse, grew to understand him as more than a criminal. It was as if in the safe haven of her apartment he was decriminalized, and she got the feeling he felt similarly. That didn't make him any less frightening, with his erratic moods and catlike movements, but they came to move in sync with one another.

After a few months, rather than showing up and frightening her into her room, they would sit in her kitchen talking about her medical exams and essays, and despite having no training in psychology he seemed to be able to keep up with the technical talk. He absorbed information in a way Harley had never seen before; she only had to explain a concept once and he retained it. She was jealous of him, frankly. And no matter what she talked about he was always interested.

Other times they would sit on the fire escape drinking wine while he spoke about what he'd gotten himself in to, always turning it into a joke despite the truth being a person or people were dead. It sounded like fiction to Harley's ears, hearing what a 'job' consisted of. When he spoke of killing people it was never with remorse or feeling, just plain facts as they affected his life. His stories were always entertaining but also horrible and morbid. Harley chose to listen to the humorous side he found in everything.

And sometimes they would just sit in her front room reading together quietly.

Harley had an idea she was seeing someone no one else could see. She quashed the horrified feelings at his lack of respect for human life and instead enjoyed his company—she looked forward to when he would show up on her couch.

About six months after he first showed up, they were sitting out on her fire escape, Harley sipping red wine with her legs tucked underneath her, while he let his legs swing off the side, his empty glass dangling from his fingertips Harley finally mustered the courage to ask him something she'd been wondering for a while.

"Why don't you ever tell me your name?"

He glanced back at her, his curly blonde hair falling over his eyes mysteriously. He bit his lip for a moment and then dangled the glass further out into the air. "What would you do if I dropped this?" he grinned at her.

Harley shook her head, laughing quietly. She hadn't expected much else.

"No really," he released the wine glass but caught it by the stem. Then did it again. And again.

"Stop!" she laughed, clamoring over to him.

"What would you do?" He held the glass away from her grasping fingers and then pulled himself away from the edge of the fire escape, opting to crunch up next the wall with her. He picked the half empty bottle of red wine off the window sill and poured them both a drink. Harley crawled up next to him and let her head rest on his shoulder. She felt the muscles grow tight and his breathing stopped for a second until she raised her head and moved away, now embarrassed. Well, apparently there were special boundaries she wasn't fully aware of. Touching. For one. Touching was not alright unless, she imagined, it was his hands around her neck.

"You'll never tell me, will you."

He grinned crookedly at her, but his voice was deadly serious. "No."

Harley sighed dramatically. "I figured as much."

They drank their wine in a comfortable silence, not touching or speaking but in sync with one another somehow. Harley felt as if every time she inhaled he would exhale, and maybe if he stopped breathing she would stop breathing.

Then he set his glass on the window sill and put his hand on her thigh.

Harley almost choked. She clutched at the stem of her glass and then put it aside for fear of crushing it in her hand. It felt as if his palm was searing through the thin cotton of her pajamas, marking the soft skin of her leg with his darkness. She glanced at him but he was looking out at Gotham with his lips twisted into an unreadable expression.

"This whole town," he said darkly, "It has something coming. These civilized people don't deserve such a false reality. No one does."

His hand pressed harder and then without warning pulled her towards him by her leg, as if she were a doll.

"You are a tricky one," he said quietly, capturing her gaze with his feral eyes.

Harley felt frightened again. He had pulled her out of the small bubble of comfort they'd arranged and now she was terrifyingly aware she was with a killer. Not a nice young man, a killer. Her first instinct was to run, but as she started to get up he put a hand on her shoulder. And though the eyes were still sharp and dangerous, his touch was soft and she relaxed, although unable to stop frowning anxiously.

"Are you afraid of me." It wasn't a question, it was a knowing statement said with an arrogant smirk.

Harley looked down at the hand on her leg and thought for a moment. She wanted to wipe the smirk off his face but saying 'no' would be a lie and he would know it. She was afraid, for more than one reason. With a simple touch of his hand her anxiety had passed and she knew he would not hurt her. But she still had very good reason to fear him, and what he was capable of doing to her. And even though she knew it was wrong but so incredibly true she answered: "I'm afraid for you."

He looked genuinely shocked.

"I don't understand." He said flatly.

"Yes, you do." She sighed. "You just don't feel fear."

They remained quiet for a long time. Then he squeezed her leg to get her attention and she looked up.

His eyes were darker than ever, and his jaw clenched as if angry. "You can't do that to me. You just—you can't."

Harley pursed her lips and tried to understand what was running through his eyes. Anger, confusion, repugnance and yet more anger. She felt more overwhelmed by him than she ever had before, and when his eyes moved down to her lips Harley almost reared away. The hand on her leg stopped her and slowly, almost childlike, they kissed.

Harley's stomach clenched and she raised a hand to touch his face, while he tentatively placed his hands on her waist, inching closer to her, their lips never breaking from each other. Another kiss, closed mouthed and sweet while they shifted, trying to get closer, but unsure how. Another kiss, and she trailed her fingers through his blonde curls, twisting into him. He trapped her bottom lip between his teeth and ran a hand up her spine. She gasped softly and they pulled away to stare at each other.

Her heart thudded almost painfully in her chest, and though she was unable to look away he seemed to not have a problem and turned back to his wine glass before moving inside. She sat, arms crossed, embarrassed once again at being made to feel as if she'd done something wrong. Hadn't he been the one to kiss her? Hadn't he been the one to come over all these nights, wanting someone to sit and talk to. Unless he did in fact have other women all over town that he used as safe houses she was the only person he really spoke to. Other than her his life was work, blood, murder, running, stealing, hiding, slaughtering. He consisted of those things only when he wasn't with her.

She gathered herself and followed him inside, expecting him to have left but he sat on the kitchen counter, looking bored and irritated. When she came in through the window he set her with those black eyes and she had an inkling that something bad was coming. Either a knife to the throat or a one way ticket off the fire escape. Nevertheless she stood staring at him, her arms crossed. Hoping to portray a woman scorned rather than a woman annoying enough to be murdered.

"Harley."

Her name on his lips sounded foreign but delicious. He only said it occasionally. But when he did she soaked it up. Even now when he looked as murderous as he did.

She walked towards him, as if on an invisible string that she couldn't escape from; like an arrow to a target and she was at his side.

"I find you annoying," he told her blankly, looking at his hands, then the wall, then her shoulder, then his hands again. "You seem to—eh—oh, lets go with _trap_ me."

She forgot to blink for a moment.

"When I'm here I'm—"

He seemed too disgusted to continue so Harley touched his hand and said. "It doesn't matter. None of it."

Another long moment elapsed where they stared at each other before he jumped off the counter and pulled her violently to him, his mouth fastening over hers so she couldn't breath or think or do anything but kiss him. Unlike the sweet kisses on the fire escape these were more vicious and needy. He pressed her against the counter and slid his hands up her back, nails digging in as if claiming her. They clawed at one another, pulling hair, scratching and fumbling with clothes until Harley was only in her bra and knickers and he'd lost his belt and shirt. She felt blind as his hands moved over her skin and his mouth followed. Whenever she met his gaze there was a gloss of bewilderment to his eyes. As if he could not believe he was undressing her, or kissing her, or so unbelievably close to her.

She was up on the counter and his fingers were moving between her legs, making her whimper and grab a handfuls of soft blonde curls, then she'd managed to get his jeans unzipped and off his hips. He crushed her to his chest and stumbled with her wrapped around him, their mouths still moving messily across mouths, throats, shoulders, ears and more until they at last made it to the bedroom.

Afterwards he lay panting next to her, their chests rising and falling in time, and Harley tried to find something to say, something poignant but all she could come up with was, "That was really good."

"Yeah," he mumbled, running a hand through his sweaty hair to mess it up and draw it over his face. "Really good." He agreed.

Harley pulled the sheet up to her chin, her breathing still uneven and her body still shaking from orgasm. It had been good. It had been more than good, it had been the best she'd ever had. She'd been in love with men and it had never been that good. It was as if he could read her body like a map, instinctively pushing the right buttons while every time she touched him he seemed to respond in kind.

Good was not the right word for it.

She decided not to look at him, for she already knew that in a few minutes he would be up and gone, confused and irritable at what they'd done. He came to her for safety from the underworld he so loved and he would soon realize that he was coming to her for more than his own physical well being soon enough. She offered him warmth and normality and ultimately, in some as of yet undesignated form, love, and she knew soon enough he would work that out and he would run as far as possible from her. Those things were not how he defined his character.

"Really good," he said again, confused and thoughtful. He put a hand on her shoulder almost comfortingly, and then rolled away from her to sleep.

The next morning Harley expected him to be gone, but she awoke to cold fingers on the small of her back. She propped herself up on her forearms and looked to see him concentrating intensely on the thin patterns he was tracing up and down her spine. He seemed relaxed and resplendent, almost angelic in the morning light. Although she knew it was deceptive, looking like an angel with cherub like curls and a handsome young face did not make one any less susceptible to evil.

"You're still here," she murmured sleepily, rolling on to her back.

He started his pattern tracing on her midriff, making it difficult for her to concentrate on his reply. "What's your point," he said, drawing his index finger up to her breasts and then down her body again. He bit his lip as if to hold back a chuckle when his hand slid between her thighs and she gasped quietly. "Why wouldn't I stay."

"I don't know," she sighed happily. "Why would you when there's this," she pulled him over to her, their bodies entwining again.

"Don't get too comfortable, doll," he said lavishishly, while she tried to kiss him. He rolled back so she was perched on top of him. He let her kiss his throat and down his chest, "But it is good."

"It's very good," she echoed.

X

Yeah everyone loves some sex. See how nice he can be to her before he completely looses the plot? The Joker wasn't always bad, you see, he was never nice but he wasn't always bad. And lets face it. He'd probably be really good in bed.

REVIEW!!!


	6. The Love Letter

A Fairly Honorable Defeat

6. The Love Letter

x

Iris Goldman looked as if she were ready to inflict some horrible form of torture the next morning when she had Harley on the stand again; that presumption wasn't exactly wrong.

"I have here a letter written to Dr. Quinzel from the man known as the Joker approximately eighteen months ago. Members of the jury, you'll find a copy in front of each of you to read as you will. This letter not only shows that the mind of this man is deranged but that he is fully aware of his actions." She turned to Harley and held a sheet of paper covered in plastic up to her, "Is this the letter you received Dr. Quinzel."

Harley tried to look slyly at the Joker without anyone noticing and she might have succeeded, except the he saw her. He quirked his eyebrows at her knowingly and then flashed an enthusiastic thumbs up. She ducked her head to the microphone again, "Yes, that's the letter." She said softly.

"I'll just read a few paragraphs than shall I—" Goldman held the letter up dramatically and the jury all shifted in their seats to read their copies.

Harley closed her eyes, wishing for temporary deafness so she wouldn't have to hear the words again. The words that pushed and pulled at her insides. Made her want to run to Gotham but also hide under her bed.

"My lovely Harlequin," Goldman read aloud, a note of sarcasm obvious in her tone.

Harley remembered the scrawled handwriting on the sheet of yellow legal pad; his loopy script indicative of his disordered personality, a classic trait of madness. The envelope was lavender which she'd thought nothing of at first until she recognized the handwriting of her name and address. It had been like a bucket of cold water was suddenly thrown over her head and she'd simply stared at the lavender envelope, afraid to open it. Afraid to see his loopy letters—E's and A's that blurred together while the letter O always stood out wide and tall. She had gathered her strength and opened the envelope.

_My lovely Harlequin,_

_It's been too long. Surely you agree? Time is not of much importance unless it's time I'm away from you. You like that, don't you. You'd like that to be the case. It's okay my little Harlequin, I can play along so long as you play along with me. It wasn't wise to leave Gotham, my dear little itty bitty baby Harlequin. You should have known there might be itty bitty baby pieces of my lovely Harlequin if you did. Thrown all around like confetti. Or some other such thing you throw with glee. If you won't be with me at least I can have some pieces of you._

_I know, I know, I know. You're a woman, not just a Harlequin as you so often reminded me with your annoying little tantrums. I don't want to tie the hostage down, I don't want to drive the get away car. I love you I hate you, why am I the one who has to watch you cut off fingers and toes and noses. I said it would only be the once and it only was, right! I never lie Harlequin. You don't want to be a bad guy, you want to be a goody goody little psychologist who helps the criminally insane, even if that means a quickie in a stolen car. But we know I'm not insane. Not insane in the slightest._

_Essentially, if you don't come back, because I need you back what choice have I got? Do I need you back? Do I want you back? Is this a whim or is it essential? It's necessary enough that you are getting such a sweet little letter from your darling baby—your lover as you so loved to call me. Lover, sweets, darling, and my ultimate favorite: snuggle bear. Oh, how I long to be your snuggle bear again. I know, I know, after that one time at that one bank with that one girl who was just dying to miss her left hand—I mean come on, at least she can still write—I wasn't your snuggle bear anymore. You didn't think I was cute anymore. But you just haaaaaad to have me or else you would die._

_You'll die with out me my little Harlequin. Light of my life, captor of my heart, soul mate and my love—what else is there—my lobster love. Lobsters mate for life you know. You'll die without me. By your own hand or by mine, you will die without me. I suggest we cut it short before I have to cut some part of you short, and you come back to Gotham immediately. If I can't have all of you I'd be content with an arm or a leg. The whole package would be great, but you know, I'm a man of simple tastes. _

_See you soon Harlequin._

Harley had her hands pressed over her eyes as if she were crying but really she was just imagining the words on the page—hearing his dirty nasal voice taunting and threatening and loving her so twistedly.

Goldman cleared her throat. "So, Dr Quinzel. It is clear that he thought you had feelings for him after reading this letter and you have already stated that you once loved him. I find it significant, ladies and gentleman of the jury—that even in love this man is dangerous. In this letter we see a more personal side of his past and even then the psychopathic tendencies that rule his life—damaging and threatening, ultimately designed to kill. This man is a killer, and not only should he not be allowed to roam the streets of Gotham but we the prosecution strong push—"

This whole time Harley knew he was staring at her curiously. He probably didn't remember writing the letter, she realized. Whims such as this were not important to him. The message was, of course, that she would die if she did not come back to him. But with all that went on in that mind he probably did not remember the letter itself. Didn't remember the feelings behind it. Didn't remember the actions.

She chanced another look up at him and he had his lips screwed up to the side, twisting the knotted scars oddly in a mask of curiosity as she'd expected. A little bit of irritation roamed across his face but mostly that curiosity—his version was not just normal interest, when he was curious there was no stopping him until he was satisfied.

Suddenly he opened his mouth, looking skyward as if about to say something.

Goldman was still speaking but he cut her off.

"Oh _Iris_, you silly little thing. Of _course _I loved my Harlequin!" His lawyers scrambled to keep him quiet and the security moved in threateningly. The judge ordered him to keep his mouth shut and he kept his lips pressed together but did not remove his gaze from Harley's face. The eyebrows quirking ever so slightly and the lips twitching, licking and twitching between sneers and smiles as if speaking to her. He was taunting her with his eyes.

_Go on Harley, believe that I love you. Lets see what happens—the other night I was just in a bad mood you know what I can be like poodle. Come on, give daddy a hug and we'll never fight again. I'll never hurt you, never again my little Harlequin. Give us a sweet sweet kiss._

She could hear the voice in her head. The voice of the Joker. It was so different yet so much the same from the boy in the dirty sneakers with the golden curls and the big steel knife she'd met so long ago. She wasn't going to kid herself. He'd always been this twisted thing. It just used to be more restrained and less damaged.

"Dr. Quinzel," Goldman was back in Harley's face again. "Do you think this man is capable of love? In your personal and professional opinion?"

Harley couldn't stop herself from groaning quietly, "I fail to see what relevance that has to this case."

"Whether you fail to see the relevance or not Dr. Quinzel, you are under oath and I am asking you a question."

Closing her eyes, Harley prepared herself to be bold. She felt depressed that she was having to uncover her relationship with him, it was supposed to be a secret like it had always been. Damn him for getting caught. Now she had to tell them, tell them all. So she chose her words carefully.

"Love is not a fairy tail, Miss Goldman," she said slowly. "Love has its ups and downs. No two people are the same, no love is the same. Sociopaths are nearly always incapable of compassion. But is compassion necessary for love? Whatever you decide love to be between you and your partner, it doesn't have to follow any kind of convention…" she trailed off and mumbled into the microphone. "It's only a word after all."

"Dr. Quinzel, do you think he loved you."

"I don't know."

"But you spent all those years with a murdering sociopath?"

"I took no part in his crimes."

"But you never went to the police?"

"I plead ignorance."

"Right," Goldman snorted. "I pity the patient who gets treated by you—a classic co dependant in love with a psychopath."

"Objection!" The Joker shouted, giggling.

"Objection," his lawyer echoed, although there was very little conviction behind it.

"Sustained," the judge snapped, "Keep you client quiet Mr. Murphey."

"Did he ever hurt you?"

Harley looked at the Joker and he was clearly having trouble holding back a giggling fit, "Yes."

"How often?"

She felt tears coming again. "It was really only the last year—so two years ago— that he became violent towards me. That was when I started noticing other signs of manic behavior that hadn't been—" she sniffed pathetically, trying not to cry. "That hadn't been there before. His moods were always erratic but he seemed completely unable to control them. He had always despised societal norms and lacked a great deal of compassion but this slowly took over any other personality traits."

Tears started slipping down her cheeks as Harley stared at her hands, talking so quickly she was hardly sure what she was saying. "I knew he killed people before—but it had been out of necessity—slowly, along with the other changes it became sport. Cat and mouse was always his favorite game—playing with people—getting inside their minds. That grew vicious rather than mischievous as it had been before."

"And these changes took place over the course of a year."

"A few years," Harley sniffed. "I was a co-dependant, you're right. So I only really noticed when he—when he—" She couldn't bring herself to say what she needed to. It felt like she was betraying him. There was no doubt in her mind what his eyes were doing, staring at her, dark holes burning through her feeling torn between pleasure at his antics being recounted but also brutal anger at being betrayed—at his past being revealed.

"Yes," Goldman prompted.

"There was a fight. Someone he worked for then noticed me and expressed this to him. I think he killed that man, then he came after me. We only argued at first but then it became physical. And then—" she shut her eyes and then turned to look at him dead on, not at all surprised that curiosity was back.

"And then he threw me out of a fourth story window. That was when I left him."

X

Well I'm enjoying writing this. I've noticed I'm not getting many reviews and that there aren't even very many hits. Does that mean that no one's reading joker fanfiction anymore? What a sad sad thing.

Please leave me some reviews!


	7. The Times

Note: I've been listening to that Chris Issak song 'Wicked Games' all night. You know, the one where in the video Helena Christianson is rolling around in sand being all sexy. It's the sexiest song of all time. Just. FYI.

x

A Fairly Honorable Defeat

7. The Times

Looking back Harley knew when she'd made her mistake.

For the first year it started as once a month. Then twice a month. Then once a week.

Once a week she'd get him sitting out on the fire escape, sometimes with horrible stab wounds or bruised cheeks, other times with a shirt covered in blood and something she didn't recognize; something she later learned was brain matter. A lot of the time he was just exhausted and in need of a shower. She couldn't believe how he survived it—when he wasn't covered in blood it was always something else he had to struggle through.

But she asked no questions, just pulled him through the window and pushed him playfully into the shower. He would come out of the bathroom to find some kind of warm meal waiting for him and would appear vaguely annoyed. She thought he was pretending but later she realized it did _actually_ annoy him to have someone look after him. It annoyed him until he realized how helpful her doting could be in the grand scheme of things. But that wasn't until much later.

What little they spoke to each other was usually of the philosophic nature as usual; most of their dialogue was communicated via little gestures and secret looks. And a lot of the time was spent rolling around in the white sheets of her bed where he was neither violent nor gentle. They developed a rhythm together— she understood his boundaries, certain questions not to ask and certain moods when she should remain quiet and simply play with the dirty blonde curls that fell across his forehead.

For her 23rd birthday she had a small party with a few girlfriends then returned home, happy and more than a little drunk and found a square velvet box sitting on her kitchen counter. She had shrugged out of her coat and tossed it on the couch—it missed but she didn't notice, her curiosity peaked by the velvet box. There was something bad in there, she could tell. Something that was just as secretive as her relationship—or connection—or protection with him.

Harley picked up the soft box, just bigger than her hand and heavier than it looked. Pressing her lips together in silent anticipation she lifted the lid to find a stunning diamond necklace—larger than was in any way necessary or appropriate for any sort of occasion she could possibly wear it to. It was set in platinum and sparkled in the dim kitchen light, like something a queen should own—not a lowly medical student. Of course it was from him. Of course the next day there were headlines in the newspaper about Tiffany's being robbed.

Of course she turned around and he was there, standing awkwardly in the darkness, insecure and testy to see if she would approve. Harley set the necklace down on the counter, feeling a rush of affection—not that she had a stolen diamond necklace which was most likely worth hundreds of thousands of dollars—but that he had given her something. She threw her arms around his neck, ignoring the stiffness in his shoulders and tried to look into his deep green eyes.

"I love it," she whispered, pressing her face to his neck.

He coughed, "Really?" He seemed surprised. Perhaps he was expecting a telling off for her stolen present. "That's ah—good."

She forced his head down to look in her eyes. He'd started wearing a bit more eyeliner lately, now a thick line across his upper lid. "I love it." She said, trying to convey a secret meaning only to be disappointed when all he did was relax his shoulders rather than reply with some similar sentiment. She was sure he was feeling the same feelings as she was—how could he not? The way he touched her—rough hands sliding over her body, not quite so much worshiping as declaring his own property. She loved it. She loved being his secret just as she was his.

She forced him to kiss her and led him into the bedroom.

Once a week turned into twice then three times a week— then it seemed like whenever he wasn't out doing whatever he did he was with her. Rather than late night visits he'd get in around eight in the morning looking pale and exhausted and fall into bed next to her still wearing the dark blue skinny jeans and dirty sneakers.

Harley rolled over with her hands tucked under her head, watching him as he took a few deep breathes and rubbed his face into the pillow restlessly. She noticed a large silver gun with a silencer attached to the end still grasped in his left hand; it lay between them on her white sheets poignantly. When he noticed her looking down at it he tossed it carelessly over his shoulder so it landed on the floor a few feet away from the bed. In a quasi affectionate gesture he mustered the energy to pat her head with his dirty hand a few times and Harley giggled softly.

He smiled into the pillow and promptly fell fast asleep, his soft blonde hair which he'd started wearing a bit longer these days— covering his face. For an entire year they did this song and dance—and Harley was perfectly happy to play along—she didn't think she'd ever been as happy as she was when they stayed in bed all day saying very little other than an occasional sweet nothing to one another. Sometimes, he could be sweet and tender—but she didn't know if it was for her sake or if it was just an accident on his brain's part.

"I love you," she murmured against his cheek.

It was summer time and they'd been lounging in her bed all day, only getting up for toast and a quick shower together to wash off the sweat from hours of sex. Now Harley was wrapped around him again, her open window letting in a gentle breeze and bright sunshine glint on their freshly washed skin.

He looked up at her, wet hair plastered to his forehead. "You do?" he said, frowning.

"Mmm," Harley nodded, "I'm sorry."

He giggled. "Don't be sorry."

"Do you love me?" She asked tentatively, biting her lip because she knew this line of conversation could potentially ruin their lovely day.

He gave her a sharp look, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, Harley," he sighed. She half expected him to get up and leave or otherwise tell her off, but instead he stared at the ceiling looking conflicted as he chewed on his lips. At last he said quite softly, without looking at her. "I've grown quite fond of you." Then pulled a silly face.

Harley beamed at him, thrilled by his words. He looked over at her warily, and shook his head at the look of joy spread across her face. "Oh Harley," he said affectionately yet with irony—he pulled her close to him. "Whatever will I do with you."

"Whatever you want," she told him in earnest.

He grinned widely, wickedly, "I'm holding you to that, my dear."

Now in her third year at Med school Harley couldn't afford to miss a single lecture, so she'd reluctantly left him sleeping in her bed most mornings—or what she was slowly starting to think of as _their_ bed. As far as she could tell he was living with her— he didn't seem to have anywhere else to sleep or eat—and he only ever left her side to go out 'to work' as he put it. "Got to go to work, honey bunny," he'd say casually with a cruel grin, knowing full well that she would assume this meant something horrible was about to happen to some other person out there.

One night Harley was milling around the kitchen making dinner while he sat at the kitchen table on the phone, speaking quietly so she couldn't hear. She diced an onion and pretended to be fully absorbed in the task while straining her ears to catch anything from his conversation.

"Thirty-second street—I don't really care—that's the going rate these days—" He let out a loud peel of cackling laughter that always made chills run down Harley's spine. Something about his laugh was unsettling, it was something she'd only recently noticed, that his laughter was changing. It was odd but she chalked it up to her own neurosis.

He sauntered into the kitchen watching her sauté onions and garlic on the stove. "What ya up to?" he asked, slinking over to her.

She smiled up at him and ignored the sudden twitch that ran through his shoulders, "Spaghetti Bolognaise."

"You know, Harley, I'll never understand why women bother to cook," he hopped up on the counter and examined his nails, then mimed buffing them on his shirt.

"Well, it's not just women who cook," she said, pretending to be offended.

He reached into the drawer next to his swinging legs and pulled out about ten take-out pamphlets. "So why do you have a collection of these little beauties?"

Harley gave him a withering look by way of response.

"Obviously it'd just be easier if we didn't have to eat at all," he mused, watching her add minced meat and tomatoes to the saucepan.

"Can you grab that spaghetti over there, please?" she asked sweetly.

"No." He jumped off the counter and pulled his vibrating mobile phone from his pocket. "What," he said gruffly, moving out of the kitchen and out of ear shot.

Harley grumbled to herself under her breath, annoyed with him for being obstinate again.

"Harley," his tone was rough again. She turned to look at him standing with his arms crossed in the doorway, looking mildly irritated but also relatively amused. Only he could convey both at once. For a moment she was sure he'd heard her say, "Bastard," under her breath but he only pursed his lips and said, "I have to go."

"Oh," she sighed, down cast. "Okay then."

"You're coming with me," he continued.

She jerked her gaze over to him, taken aback by the order. "I'm coming with you?" she repeated, her eyes wide with surprise.

He scoffed, "That's what I said isn't it."

"But—why?" She stuttered.

"I need you," he said, still gruff and cold, but the words themselves almost made Harley swoon. He _needed_ her. He gestured to the stove, "Turn that off, take off the apron, we're going now."

Harley scrambled to do as he said as quickly as possible and followed him out of the apartment quietly— she was afraid to say anything lest he change his mind and tell her to stay at home. The fact that something horrible was about to happen to another person didn't cross her mind, she was solely focused on the fact that he _needed_ her to come with him—not only that but she would get to have a taste of exactly what it was he did when he left her at night.

They got on the L train towards downtown Gotham and Harley spent the entire trip sitting in silence, her mind racing between what they could possibly be about to do, whether the bolognas sauce would be edible when they got home and if she got home too late would she be capable of going to her lecture in the morning. Looking over at him she noticed he was lost in thought as well, and would glance at her every couple of minutes warily, as if unsure if bringing her with him was wise.

They climbed out of the subway and he took her hand casually, linking their fingers as they walked down the relatively deserted streets of downtown Gotham. The only person they saw for three blocks was a woman wearing furs and carrying a small dog as she waited for her chauffer to open the door to the shiny black limousine stretched out before them. Harley could feel his distaste for the image and tried to muster the same level of disgust—the woman was just too nice looking though and she couldn't bring herself to hate her for having money.

As they walked past, the older woman looked down at their clasped hands and offered Harley a wide smile as if to say, 'Ah, young love.' Harley tried not to smile back but found herself beaming with pride none the less at being recognized as his _girlfriend_.

They came up to one of the absurdly mammoth skyscraper buildings in the financial district and he led her inside, still holding hands. The night security guard was asleep at his post so they breezed past into the elevator. He pressed the button for the twenty-seventh floor and yawned loudly.

"Tired?" she asked, the first thing she'd said since they left the apartment for their little adventure.

"A bit," he said conversationally, "I think I'll sleep in tomorrow. Have you got class?"

"At ten," she sighed sadly. She would have liked nothing more than to sleep in or just stay in bed all day with him.

He removed something from his pocket with a sharp flick and a glint of silver. "You should just blow it off and stay home with me Dr. Harlequin."

She grinned and looked over at him, that was one of his new pet names for her—a play on her name Harleen Quinzel. The grin promptly dropped off her face when she realized the shining silver thing he held in his hand was a jack knife about six inches long and dangerously sharp. He looked down at her, daring her to say something about the knife. Harley swallowed heavily, willing herself to not look surprised or frightened.

"You know I'd like nothing more, darling," she said sincerely, and found herself grinning stupidly—then she realized that the situation was actually remarkably funny and she let out a tiny giggle.

He looked incredibly pleased with this and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze and a kiss on the temple.

The elevator doors dinged open at the twenty-seventh floor and with a knife in one hand, and Harley's small white hand clutched in the other, he quietly moved down the hallway, almost cat like, checking the names on the doors with pursed lips. She noticed the slightly odd mannerisms such as hunching his shoulders and an unsteady gait, the lip smacking and the occasional unnecessary coughs became more pronounced. Finally he said, "Ah hah!" happily and told her to stay put.

"If anyone comes down this hallway you bang on the door, alright?" he told her seriously.

She nodded and he kissed her again before slipping silently into the office.

At first she could hear nothing other than the quick beating of her nervous heart. Harley still had no idea what was going on, but she got the feeling she was playing look out. That meant she was an accessory to—what, murder? Or perhaps just robbery—maybe even something less than that. He could just be looking for documents or something like that—her train of thought was cut off by a low wail that turned into a scream. Then the scream was cut off and only gurgling could be heard.

He was speaking and laughing over the gurgling and then there were several loud thumps and stomps—something heavy being dragged across carpet. Ten minutes went by where she could only hear him shuffling around the office until at last he emerged, tucking the jack knife in his pocket and wiping his bloodied hands on a dark green tie, a look of immense satisfaction spread across his face. Again, Harley tried not to look disturbed but it became even harder when she chanced a look into the office only to see a heavy figure swinging from the ceiling, the unmistakable sound of rope creaking and thick wet drops landing on the carpet.

Harley's insides went cold but she quickly shrugged it off, not wishing to disappoint him. She only prayed she didn't get asked along to any more of his little outings. They got back inside the elevator and he sighed happily. "Do you think that Spag Bol will be good if we heat it up?"

"Erm—should be—we can always order pizza if not," Harley made her voice as casual as possible and this seemed to make him even happier. He slid his arms around her waist and kissed her hard the entire elevator ride down. Harley melted into him, her conscience raging wildly in the back of her mind but her heart entirely pleased that she'd done a good job—whatever that job may have been.

With his arm still slung over her shoulders they walked across the lobby, but this time the security guard was awake and he jumped to his feet at seeing the blood splattering her boyfriend's faded jeans. "Hey—what are you--!"

Before the guard had a chance to respond a gun appeared from nowhere and he was shot once in the head. The sound the gun made when it went off made Harley jump and hold on to him tighter as the security guard slipped back in his seat, a bullet hole laid perfectly between his eyes leaking blood down his face. She shut her eyes, trying to block it out and let herself be taken home, her lover's strong arms holding her all the way. And somehow, that was enough to make the images fade and subdue her conscience.

By the time they got home Harley was calm and relaxed just like he was. "Are you still hungry?" she said over her shoulder as she went to the kitchen to finish their dinner. _What an evening_, she couldn't help thinking. Watch the five-o-clock news, start making dinner, kill two men, eat dinner and go to bed by ten o clock. This made her smile despite herself.

He came up behind her, "Not hungry for food," he mumbled against her ear. "You did so well tonight, little Harlequin."

She giggled and followed him into the bedroom, their dinner and the murder of two complete strangers already forgotten.

X

Note: Ooh Hoo. Personally I think he'd be a great boyfriend! Leave me some reviews darlings.


	8. Hospitals Make Him Wary

A Fairly Honorable Defeat

8. Hospitals Make Him Wary

The Joker hummed under his breath as he slipped down a hallway marked as the entrance to the Intensive Care Unit. It was his first guess as to where she would be. It was quite a challenge moving around in public without causing a stir. At 3am it wasn't too bad—only a few doctors and nurses milled around and anyone who got a look at his face was easily subdued by a gunshot to the head. Thus far he'd taken down two doctors and three nurses who had gotten in his way.

In order to blend in he'd stumbled upon a man in a doctor's uniform having a cigarette out back. After a few small jokes about how he—Dr. Collins it turned out from the name tag—should know better than to smoke silly cigarettes--then the Joker had simply shot him and taken his clean white coat. Easy as pie. He thought it looked rather nice over his white shirt and gray waistcoat—oh, and it complimented the white of his face paint.

"Always a plus," he hummed to himself, stealing into the hospital. A surgical mask covered the lower half of his face, hiding the torn up scars and red lips. Gun in hand, he followed the signs to Harley. He could feel something pulling him towards her—something said she'd be in the ICU—although he didn't know how that was exactly possible considering he'd only thrown her out a window—unless she was paralyzed. He winced to himself, he certainly hoped she wasn't paralyzed—or in a full body cast for that matter—white didn't suit her like it suited him, not with all that lovely platinum blonde hair and pale face.

A nurse walked past him, looking down at her clipboard and not noticing him or his blackened eyes—he stopped for a moment, stared after her then shrugged to himself and continued on.

He didn't like hospitals. They made him wary, something about the clean smell of bleach and antiseptic combined with the perpetual sense of sickness—not death, just sick weak people around every corner made his skin crawl. He was sure there was something else in the back of his mind, something pressing to remember a time as a child when he'd been the patient rather than the doctor—but it wouldn't come fully formed.

At last he reached the ICU, a long hall of rooms dedicated to the sickest of the sick, the closest to death of the dying and the most important thing in the world: His Harlequin. It had been two days since he'd thrown her out of the window—four stories seemed like enough that it may have killed her, and if not, left a very deep impression upon her as to exactly _where_ she stood with him. She couldn't run off at the slightest sign of trouble. Especially when that trouble was a genuine fear of her soul being in jeopardy. Silly little girl, he thought affectionately.

The Joker didn't know who he was without his Harley—that's how he really thought about her—his Harley. He didn't love her, and he didn't mind hurting her, but she was his and only his and if she thought she could leave him or get in his way, well, she had another thing coming.

A peak through the little glass window showed a blonde head turned away from the door, hooked up to about ten different machine's and IV's— he knew it was his Harley and only a moment of regret struck him that he wouldn't have to be sneaking around hospitals if he hadn't accidently thrown her out the window. It had been an accident. She'd told him what she thought of him, told him she was leaving, slapped him and clawed his face when he had _only_ tried to get her to calm down—but apparently some of his supposed madness had rubbed off and now she was a loose canon. Most of the time he liked his canons loose—unless they decided to act as she had.

The window had seemed like a good idea at the time.

The Joker pulled off the surgical mask and picked up her chart, his lips curling back in a grimace as he read down the list. "Femur fractured, left arm fractured in three places, collar bone nearly snapped and ooh—collapsed lung and six broken ribs. He got a look at her face, ashen and sweaty under the platinum fringe. Her eyes were closed, covering those baby blues he loved so much and the little upturned nose looking just as button-like as usual. Despite an arm and a leg in a cast and bandages everywhere imaginable—she still looked pretty.

He touched her nose lightly and she jerked awake, the heart monitor suddenly spiking.

At first it was as if she didn't see him, she just stared blindly past him with those big blue eyes shaking with confusion. Confusion instantly turned to fury and she tried to sit up in order to hit him or scratch him—now on the offense instead of the defense but she couldn't move being attached to so many machines and her body pinned down by bandages.

"Hey honey bunny," he said casually, ruffling her hair. "Boy, you don't look so good."

She started crying and cowering away from him. He wondered if she was refusing to speak to him or if she'd lost the power of speech in that little fall—by little it was only four stories. It could have been a lot more. It could have been twelve—wouldn't that have been so much worse?

He ruffled her hair again because it seemed to wind her up, then touched her cowering, shaking face. "I'm just kidding, darling, you look beautiful, really." It was the truth. She could never be ugly in his eyes.

"You threw me out a window—" she croaked, her voice raspy and sickly. "You just _threw_ me."

The Joker moved a hand to her shoulder—the one he was pretty sure hadn't been snapped. She gasped in pain—maybe not. "Well, at least you landed on a car, doll," he said, as if offended by her harsh words. "It could have been worse. You could have hit the pavement. The car broke your fault so you can't be _too mad-"_

She tried to swat him away again, shrieking in anger and repressed rage. Two bright spots of red appeared on her cheeks in her fury, but all she could manage to do was huff and puff and shriek and struggle in her bed until at last she threw herself down on the pillows and turned her face away from him.

"Please leave me alone," she cried, not sobbing openly again but refusing to look at him.

The Joker pouted. "Well I didn't come all the way over here for that kind of talk—look at me, Harley." When she refused he pressed his hand down on the IV in her arm, shoving the needle in further and she shrieked again. "_Look at me_" he growled.

She faced him, lips trembling, big blue baby eyes full of unshed tears.

"I thought you loved me, Harlequin."

She didn't say anything, only clenched her jaw and let tears slide down her face. "I will never forgive you for this. I don't know who you are anymore," she gave a dry sob, "You have taken up so much of my life and I've given you everything and all you've done is turn yourself into—into this!" She gestured to his face, the scars and the paint.

"You know, doll, I don't really think you're being uh—fair here," he said thoughtfully, taking a seat next to her. "I mean you always knew who I was—you just decided to—uh—block it out, shall we say." He made air quotes around the last sentence. "You always knew."

"You never hurt me. You hurt everyone but me. Why," she sobbed, "Why did you have to hurt me."

"Because!" He threw his hands up, "What else was I supposed to do!"

"You are a psychopath!" she shrieked, seething, "I always knew in some way but you are—you're a psychopath—literally, you need to be locked up in Arkham!" She snarled openly at him, and he loved the way a good snarl looked on her pretty face.

"You know I'm not crazy, Harley," he said, miffed.

"You are," she shook her head. "You are, you are—you can hide behind make up and hide behind the scars and hide behind a philosophy of nihilism, but really you're just mentally disturbed and I think you're _embarrassed_ now that I know the truth—I know you better than anyone and when I say it—"

He slapped her across the face and her head shot sideways, platinum hair flying around her. "That's not very nice, honey bunny."

"What is going on in here!" a nurse stumbled into the room, shock and fear muddling her expression. She was middle aged, probably almost a grandmother, but without even a backward glance the Joker shot her and she fell down on the floor bleeding and gagging—he'd gotten her in the neck.

"Okay, I'm going to go but I want you to think about what you've done," he admonished. After a moment's hesitation he leaned in close to Harley's tear stained face, the smell of greasepaint and sweat mingled in an all too familiar scent. He rubbed his cheek against hers, nuzzling her softly, and leaving a streak of red and white down the side of her face. "I'll see you soon my dear," he grinned, showing off his scars, "Don't you go anywhere."

And with that he was gone, just in time to miss more doctors and nurses and security and eventually police coming in to harass Harley.

A few days later, unsure how dramatic his exit had been, The Joker returned to Harley's bedside. But she wasn't there. There were no records of her being discharged or transferred but she was no longer there. He hated not knowing where she was, it left a bad taste in his mouth that was impossible to get rid of—impossible until he found her again. Obviously—obviously work was more important than her _technically_ but there was no way he could perform admirably without her by his side.

He snarled and cursed and murdered a few interns before leaving the hospital in a huff, and without his Harlequin.

Well, he thought. That would just not do at all.

X

Note: Go on my darlings, leave me some reviews. I'm so sad without them.


	9. The Scars

Note: I've been listening to that Chris Issak song 'Wicked Games' all night. You know, the one where in the video Helena Christianson is rolling around in sand being all sexy. It's the sexiest song of all time. Just. FYI.

x

A Fairly Honorable Defeat

7. The Scars

A year in to her bizarre relationship with the Joker—who as of yet did not go by any name at all other than the pet names she gave him—lover, darling, snuggle bear—but she only used that one when he was in a good mood, the reaction usually being a wry smile at her attempt at subtle humor.

She hadn't been asked on any more outings although she did notice the police sniffing around outside her flat one day—that had worried her. It turned out they had a tip off that a man who'd just killed the Mayor's wife had been seen running in the direction of her apartment. Harley's throat went dry and she feigned worry at the potential threat he could cause in such a quiet neighborhood. The police bought it and insisted it was probably fine—they didn't come back after that but Harley was sure to make a passive aggressive point so that he knew to be more careful.

One night they ordered Chinese food and he insisted upon watching reruns of M.A.S.H. Harley shook her head as she doled out rice onto plates for them. "You have the strangest tastes, darling."

From the sofa he cackled in that disturbing new way he'd adopted, "Oh please. Blood and gore and martinis, what's not to love about M.A.S.H?"

She slid onto the couch next to him, "Blood and gore—ah, I can see why you like it. Did you ever finish reading my anatomy text book." She shot him a secret smile and he ignored her.

"Horrible circumstances and still there's something to laugh at," he mumbled, almost to himself.

After they finished eating and M.A.S.H. had ended he checked his watch and dropped a kiss on her cheek. "Got to go to work, doll."

"Okay, lover. See you in the morning?"

"If you're lucky."

But he didn't come back that morning. Or the morning after that. For two weeks she didn't see or hear from him—there was a silence in her apartment that she didn't like. An emptiness that seemed to consume her. It made it difficult to eat, difficult to sleep and impossible to concentrate on school work. The third year at medical school is perhaps the most important, when students come out of the classroom and start working with actual patients and performing techniques they'd only read about before.

It was close to impossible to put an IV in someone's arm, or stitch a wound closed when her mind only swung back to her love and all the horrible things that could have happened to him. Her girlfriends noticed the difference immediately and voiced their concerns but Harley brushed them off, saying she was just getting ill. It was January and she claimed that it was flu season.

Two weeks had passed since that last night and Harley was almost loosing hope. She sat at her desk with her head buried in a medical text on ethics—she was so absorbed she almost missed the soft 'tink tink tink' sound behind her. She sat up, ears alert, not frightened but incredibly wary. Even if she lived in a relatively safe area Gotham was still a hell hole of crime and it was folly to think you were safe anywhere.

'Tink tink tink' the sound came again and she realized it was coming from her window. Cautiously, Harley staggered over to her bedroom window, hoping to god it wasn't something other than a tree branch or a bird. It was neither though, it was him, crouching on the fire escape with something held up to his face. She slid the window open and peered out into the darkness. He had what looked like a hooded sweatshirt held covering his face, only two blackened eyes darting around madly, conveying some emotion she'd never seen there before.

"Hi," she whispered, her forehead creasing, as relief flooded her. All she wanted to do was throw her arms around him but from the mania in his eyes she didn't expect anything in that vein. "Come in, are you alright?"

He hovered out on the fire escape, wavering slightly and gripping the sweatshirt to his face.

Harley tried to coax him through the window but was abruptly distracted by the way he was clutching the sweatshirt so earnestly to his face— it looked as if it were soaked in something. A drop fell on the window sill, crimson and heavy, and Harley realized it was blood. The sweatshirt was covered in blood and was dripping all over her window sill. A knot of panic formed in her stomach and she tried to usher him through but he kept shaking his head and pushing her away.

"What happened," she gasped, attempting to pull the soaked fabric away from his face but he pushed her hands away, then bent down so they were eye level. Slowly he pulled the drenched material down and Harley had to swallow the scream that threatened to explode from her lips.

It was horrible. The flesh had been torn from each corner of his mouth up his cheeks in a Chelsea Smile. The muscle and sinew hung open like two raw pieces of meat, exposing teeth and gums; his tongue moved helplessly, afraid to speak lest he ripped his sliced face further. The torn flesh bled relentlessly, blood pooling in his mouth, staining his teeth and dripping down his chin.

"Oh God," Harley shrieked, trying to pull him into the room. He tripped through the window rather reluctantly and let her drag him into the bathroom.

Harley was having trouble thinking straight. In school she worked with cadavers and saw pictures of relatively horrific wounds and injuries in her text books, but nothing could have prepared her for his mutilated face. It was hard to believe someone was capable of doing that to another human being.

"Okay," she murmured, her hands shaking as she flipped on the bathroom light and shuffled under the sink for her black doctor's bag. Standing up, she tried to wipe the look of sheer horror off her face when she met his eyes—they were still darting around frantically and he was breathing heavily through his nose, almost on the verge of hyperventilating. "You have to let me look at it," she said softly, trying to take the shirt away.

He hesitated for a moment obstinately, as if unwilling to accept her help but gradually removed the cloth from his mutilated face, staring her down as if daring her to look away. She didn't, she sat him down on the toilet seat and set about stopping the bleeding as best as possible with a roll of gauze. It didn't do much good, the splintered capillaries and veins continued pumping relentlessly; she noticed his face was taking on an ashen, papery look suggesting he'd lost far too much blood.

A low growl emerged from his throat when she attempted to apply some antiseptic to the exposed flesh. Harley whispered apologies but continued to smear the open wound with the stinging cream. The only result was her hands coming away covered with blood and dead tissue, unsure whether any antiseptic had actually done its job. Another low growl when she swathed his face in gauze again.

"I need to suture this or it won't stop bleeding," she told him seriously, trying to look him in the eye to convey the seriousness of the situation. He simply shrugged and held the gauze to his face while she led him into the bedroom.

Harley told him to lie down on her bed, and he did as he was told. She picked through the doctor's bag, praying the preliminary tools included surgical sutures. More than that she prayed she was capable of sewing his face shut without killing him or being too slow so that he bled to death.

Shaking slightly, she laid out the needles and sutures and surgical string on the side table—he watched her without feeling, appearing almost bored about the process but his eyes expressed a sense of being trapped.

"I don't have any pain killers," she told him in what she hoped was a comforting voice, "So this will hurt. Squeeze my leg if it will help." His hand latched onto her thigh as she prepared the sutures and then leaned over him. He glared at her narrowly and squeezed her leg. "I'll be as quick as possible," she promised. He looked away from her, concentrating on a random spot on the ceiling.

Harley wrapped the wound in gauze again, then feeling as if it were the cruelest thing she could have ever done, started on his right cheek, just under the angled bone she hooked the suture through half an inch of skin and muscle and drew the two halves close together. He kicked his legs and exhaled loudly through his nose; the hand that clamped down on her thigh squeezed so hard Harley almost lost her concentration.

It took about fifteen minutes, the whole time he gripped her leg and stared at her face with untamed rage. When she'd finished Harley leaned away from him, dabbing with gauze and antiseptic again and took in his new face. It was a new face. Before he'd been deceptively youthful, where a cheeky wink from under those blonde curls could charm anyone and flash of a smile could undeniably be called 'cute.' But now…

She sat back, watching him clutch at the sheets and writhe, seeming almost to bask in the pain rather than block it out. That handsome face had been split in half, the big green eyes and straight brow still youthful, shaded presently by sweaty locks of gold hair—that stay just the same. But below the eyes the mouth and cheeks were brutally warped, pulled out at odd angles and puckered by the surgical string. It was monstrous and Harley felt a sense of mourning knowing he would always look like this.

He looked for a moment as if he were going to speak but Harley put her hand on his chest and shook her head. "No, you can't speak—" she paused, feeling sick. "And you can't eat either—" He was looking at her warily. "We really should take you to the hos—" when he glared harder at her she clamped her mouth shut and tried to hold his hand—he let her after brushing her off a few times.

She didn't leave his side for the following ten days. At first just changing the stitches and the dressing while he sat staring at her moodily, then attempting to figure out what he could eat—straws were impossible due to the damaged facial muscles. Despite being perfectly capable of using his hands he let her spoon feed him anyway—whether because it amused him or he was simply lazy Harley indulged him and it made her happy.

Despite the fact that Harley missed nearly half her mid terms staying home with him, and that a majority of that time consisted of him ignoring her or sulking in silence—but she didn't care. Nothing seemed as important as taking care of him until he could at least speak. But before even that could happen he disappeared again and Harley found herself sinking back into the depressed neurosis she had found herself the last time he'd disappeared.

She didn't know what was happening to her. Somehow her brain had gotten past the fact that he was a murdering criminal and possibly a sociopath if the way he occasionally treated her was any indication. But now all she wanted was to be around him, he made her laugh and feel comfortable and engaged all at once. Whether or not she'd want to admit it having him laid up for those ten days while she took care of him was something close to heaven even though she knew he was in pain. At least she got to be with him after two months without him.

The only thing that kept her mind from complete obsession was the fact that she'd decided what she would specialize in after medical school: psychiatry. She couldn't tell if it was from a desire to help people or sheer curiosity but the new course load meant almost twice as much work in addition to retaking the mid terms. It kept her at least minutely focused while he was off doing whatever it was he was doing.

Luckily he came back. A month later and his face was more or less healed though he still looked something like a monster. As long as Harley concentrated on the big green eyes she still saw the mischievously handsome young man she'd first met. And although she wouldn't like to admit it, something had indeed changed in him since his face so violently slashed open. Something she couldn't quite pinpoint. It was rougher—perhaps less caring even though she didn't think that was possible. He'd become flippant and callous in a lot of ways, especially how he spoke to her. No longer just a nihilist with a philosophical agenda, the scars that marred his handsome face seemed to have imbedded something truly unkind in him.

X

Note: Wow, I'm kind of worried at exactly how much I've been working on this. If you'd like to leave me some reviews that would be gorgeous.


	10. Untitled

A Fairly Honorable Defeat

10. Untitled

Harley bent over the sink in her hotel room washing the blonde hair dye out—it had been a snap decision on the way home from the courthouse—she'd asked the police officer who was driving her to please stop at a drug store so she could pick something up. She was tired of her mousy hair with just the ends still the platinum colour she'd loved so much. Being depressed and doped up on valium made it difficult for her to care about what her hair looked like.

In the background the news woman on television was talking about the Joker case—how the death penalty had been ruled out but the defense were pushing for the insanity plea, which was incredibly likely considering every psychiatrist who'd spoken with him had labeled him a psychopath and a danger to himself, society and others—and even jail was perhaps too much of a public environment. Essentially, he needed a straight jacket and a solitary padded cell to keep out of trouble.

"That's likely—" Harley mumbled under her breath as she started drying her hair with the complimentary hotel hair dryer. She noticed it was attached to the wall to discourage people from stealing it, and she remembered their small collection of complimentary hotel and motel hair dryers which he'd ripped out of the walls and brought home—there had a been a little stash of them in the bathroom. It amused him greatly to bring one back every time he stayed somewhere—or simply did a job in one. Some men brought home a post card from their travels—he brought home hair dryers.

Harley found herself smiling but quickly shook it off.

She fluffed her newly platinum blonde hair out and examined herself from all angles. A sudden surge of confidence made another wide smile spread across her face—without her sad mousy hair her blue eyes popped, her skin appeared soft and creamy rather than splotchy beige and her posture was just a tiny bit straighter.

Ladylike Light Blonde, that was what the package called the hair colour—amusing—she knew who else it would amuse.

Harley groaned, and prayed to god staring at the back of his green head for the next week wouldn't make her mind even more muddled than it already was.

Gordon picked her up to take her to the courthouse and he commented on her hair looking very nice with a kind smile—which Harley took to mean that maybe he noticed Ladylike Light Blonde had an effect on her confidence too. They didn't speak much during the car ride until he attempted to broach the subject of her testimony the day before.

"So—there's no record of you ever pressing charges for assault, Dr. Quinzel."

She glanced over at him warily and tucked a strand of bouncy platinum hair behind her ear. "No, there wouldn't have been much point. He may as well be invisible when he doesn't want to get caught or noticed. And I didn't know his name."

Gordon mulled this over, "That's incredible—that you never knew his name."

Harley shrugged, feeling awkward discussing the subject with Gordon. It was like talking about sex with your Father. "It didn't seem to matter at the time."

A long silence fell between them before Gordon spoke again. "There was an inquest into the murders of several staff members while you were in Gotham City Hospital for your—injuries," he pressed, glancing at her as they stopped at a light. "It was him, wasn't it."

It wasn't a question and Harley sighed, "Yes, of course. I told the police I was being stalked but I didn't know by whom—and that he had been the one who murdered them—there was a nurse dying on the floor next to my bed—it was horrible. I'm a doctor and I couldn't do anything to help her because I was strapped down in a bed." She sighed again, "Anyway they moved me to a hospital up in Providence because I was sure he'd check every hospital in and around Gotham to find me."

Gordon nodded resolutely. "And he never found you."

"He somehow found an article I wrote for the Harvard Medical Journal about psychosomatic functions and sent that— _letter_ there. It scared me to death—I was sure he would find me. Then I was offered a job at Yale so I took it. He seemed to loose interest after that because I didn't hear from him again—up until, of course—that video the press showed."

"It's funny," Gordon said, "The way his brain works—its solitary—it's like he doesn't have any desire for company, everyone is expendable to him. But not you. You're the only one who he seems to generally—" Gordon searched for the right word and Harley got the impression this wasn't just friendly conversation, he was trying to get information out of her. "Want around," he said at last. "But obviously as a deranged obsession."

Harley laughed. "That's only because he doesn't know how else to keep me with him. So he resorts to fear tactics like he does with everything else. He does the same thing with Batman. Obsess manically then attempt to trap the object of his obsession using fear and manipulation. But it was different with me."

Gordon frowned, "You aren't saying you think he _cares_ about you, are you? Because Dr. Quinzel, I've spent time with him. He's not capable of anything other than destruction. He'd tell you that himself."

"Of course he would, he's a complete narcissist," Harley scoffed. Normally she hated talking about him or thinking about him, but because Gordon seemed so curious and so naïve she found herself speaking comfortably. "I'm not a fool—he is a text book psychopath. Incapable of compassion and wanting only what he wants in the moment he wants it. I wouldn't say he loves me. But I _know_ he cared about me at one point. It's just a question of when it became so twisted." She coughed. "For both of us."

Gordon was silent, secretly thinking she had been deceived by his lies like everyone else. But then she continued, looking out the window with a small smile. "I used to tell him I loved him, back when things were good—those first two years he wouldn't say it back but he would say '_I'm very fond of you Harlequin.'_ It was his way of saying something. He would look me in the eye when he said it—in a soft genuine voice."

"You'll have to forgive me, but I have trouble picturing that," Gordon pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose—his mouth was drawn into a skeptical line.

"It was before the scars," she explained casually

"Dear God," Gordon sighed, trying to force himself to be civil about the Joker. It was clear Harley didn't harbor an large amount of ill will towards him as she remembered him. Only as he presently existed—as the Joker. "It's unfortunate mental illness had to take over such a – whatever you two had. Before he became the Joker." He choked out, feeling slightly sick at the prospect of saying anything remotely kind about the murdering psychopath.

"Yes," she agreed dimly.

They reached the courthouse and went through all the standard security procedures and Harley was led to a spot in the middle of the room next to a few other witnesses. She watched Iris Goldman pace and shuffle papers up in the front looking just as much of a piranha as she usually did. Harley wondered where he was—there was no sign of his dirty blonde curls—no, she checked her self—now it was greasy green strands.

At last, surrounded by more police officers than could have been in anyway necessary, they led him in to the front. As if magnetized to her, the Joker glanced around and spotted her instantly. He took in her newly died blonde hair and the fact that she'd slapped on a little make up and didn't look _too_ much like the depressing hag she had the day before.

It peaked his interest and he offered her an air kiss despite his entourage of burly guards.

Harley found herself pretending to grab the air kiss he'd sent her way and kissing her palm. Then she stopped dead when he grinned at her crookedly and for those few moments when the air kiss floated between them she was reminded of the man she loved and it absolutely crushed her heart. She wished to God she was anywhere but Gotham in that moment, but as she was required to be at the trial she settled for glaring at him darkly to his amusement.

Everything she did was always for his amusement.

X

Note: hope that wasn't toooo boring.


	11. Harley Harley Harley Quin

A Fairly Honorable Defeat

11. Harley Harley Harley Quin

"Please don't hurt me! Please, please, please don't hurt me!" The young redheaded girl huddled on the floor sobbed desperately. She was absolutely stunning—big blue eyes, pretty heart shaped face with a nose that turned up just the right amount and full lips—they'd been painted crimson but the lipstick was now speared across her face. Her eye shadow was halfway down her cheeks from the tears she'd been crying for the last hour. But still, Harley thought she was still gorgeous even with raccoon eyes and smeared lipstick.

Harley wanted to say, "I'm sorry, I don't want to be here either." Or, "If I could let you go I would—but then I don't think I would make it out the door." Or even, "I know this seems bad now, but hopefully he'll be in a good mood and it won't get that much worse." She had class in the morning—her fourth year at medical school and instead of being home with her head in a book she was—_here. _

"Please don't hurt me—why are they doing this to me?" The redhead continued to sob openly. Her hands and feet were bound with duct tape making movement virtually impossible.

With a sigh, Harley looked away from the young girl. They were probably the same age. They were probably very similar in a lot of ways. Except right now the redhead was a duct taped kidnap victim and Harley was sitting on a stool near the door with a very big gun in her hand—she'd been given the charge of watching the victim. One of a several charges she'd been given lately.

At first there were a few similar to the one where she kept look out. Then in only the last few months they'd grown more and more dangerous until without realizing it, Harley was suddenly fully submerged in Gotham's underbelly with her unnamed boyfriend. As for being dangerous for her physical well being—well—everyone seemed afraid of him, most likely because of the scars. The thugs that were frequently around seemed to almost respect her for being with him.

Only recently did she understand where he'd go all those nights.

One day, after a grueling thirteen hours at the hospital shadowing a very patronizing doctor with the rest of her class—one of their _hands on_ days she'd come home to a very normal scene. He was out on the fire escape on his mobile and the television had the news going. She wasn't really in any kind of a mood to deal with his lately very twitchy and unkind temperament, so she unloaded the groceries and poured a glass of wine to calm her nerves.

By the end of the glass of wine he'd slipped back inside, smiling happily. He'd clearly just had a shower because his hair was plastered to his forehead—which Harley found incredibly cute. As usual, so long as she looked from his velvety green eyes and upward he was still as handsome as he'd ever been. The scars—well she'd gotten used to them after a few months. Along with the scars came the twitchy temperament but that was easily avoided so long as she remained quiet when he was in a noticeably bad mood.

The small signs of affection were still there every now and then. Like just then. He came up and wrapped his arms around her, still grinning manically. She didn't like the way it pulled at his scars so she just pressed her face into his shirt and sighed, "I've had the longest day," she moaned.

"Hmmm," he hummed, clearly not interested, "Look, Harley, you're coming out with me again tonight."

She froze, realizing the hug was to butter her up, not a sign of affection. He felt her go rigid and squeezed her tighter, "Oh come on, don't be such a—a—ahm, well, don't be like that."

Harley knew saying no would be an absolute mistake and he might disappear again. Every little argument they had ended in his disappearing for a week or so, leaving Harley in a state of panic that he might have been killed or hurt—or worse, so angry with her that he never came back. So she prayed it wouldn't be too much of a _job_ and went along with him out the fire escape and down the metal frame. Harley wasn't sure why they didn't just use the front door but again, she wasn't willing to start an argument.

A silver van was waiting just under the fire escape and he hoped off the last bit of fire escape easily—the van's door slid open as soon as his feet hit the pavement. He held his arms out to her but Harley hesitated.

"I'm not going to drop you, honey." He said, making a face. "Don't' you trust me?"

Harley hopped off the fire escape and he caught her easily then chucked her into the van before climbing in after her. The door slid shut and they took off down the ally way towards main street. It was only then that Harley looked around at the other men in the van with them, and the fact that half of them were looking at her with something akin to hunger in their eyes. She shrank closer to her lover and he looked down at her curiously.

"Who's the bird?" The muscled young man in the passenger seat asked callously, "She's awfully clean looking for a prozzie." The other men in the car snickered at this.

"Excuse me!" Harley couldn't stop herself from snapping, "They think I'm a _prostitute._"

Before she even had the word 'prostitute' out of her mouth there was a loud zipping sound she'd now come to recognize as a gun with a silencer going off. The man in the passenger seat slumped forward and a bullet hole formed in the windscreen. Harley's eyes widened and she found herself momentarily incapable of speech.

"Anyone else?" he said jovially.

"So I take it, she's your lady then, Joker?" said a young boy in the back—he couldn't have been more than 18 though he was twirling a gun in his hand as if he'd been handling one for years.

Harley looked up at him, focusing on the green eyes, "Joker?" she mouthed and he shrugged back but slung an arm around her shoulders.

Her job had been to play look out. She couldn't understand why it was taking so many people to pull off one _job_ so to speak but it quickly became clear when they pulled up outside the city courthouse. Harley was instructed to stay outside and stop anyone from going in—a gun was placed in her hand and she felt sick at the feeling of the cold metal in her palm. She was supposed to stop people either by her natural charm or the heavy gun.

"How do I hide this—I don't even have my bag—" she hissed at him as the others tripped quietly up the steps to the courthouse.

"Tuck it in your trousers," he said impatiently, stuffing the nose of the gun down the back of her jeans.

"This is absurd," she muttered when he'd finished.

He crossed his arms and pursed his lips, about to break into a sour mood—she quickly spread her lips into a wide fake smile that she hoped was silly enough to sweeten up his mood at least a little bit. It worked—he cackled quietly, ruffled her hair and planted a kiss on her lips.

"Go get 'em tiger," she heard herself say, irony steeping her words. He found this amusing as well and tried to hold back giggling all the way up the steps to the courthouse.

Only one person tried to enter but she managed to stave them off without having to pull out the gun. Harley didn't think there was any way she was capable of that anyway. She knew she wouldn't be able to kill anyone—ever—she would just never do it—but as for pulling out a gun threateningly. Well, maybe if there were no bullets. But still, she wouldn't want to frighten someone like that. Especially not someone innocent who had no that idea if they did go up those steps they'd be in a world of pain.

The guys came running down the steps and she was grabbed and thrown into the van again just as it pulled up to the curb. They all climbed inside, sweating and panting from the run down. The young man who was so comfortable with his gun was now in the passenger seat—he turned to look at them. "You are one sick fuck Joker."

He shrugged and Harley watched him warily out of the corner of her eye. She decided she would ask when they got home—but when they got there—entering via the front door at Harley's insistence—he simple held his hands up. "Don't ask me any questions." He said firmly.

"Okay, don't drag me along on any more adventures," she sighed back, moving into the kitchen to make dinner. She poured another large glass of wine and he came up behind her, pushing her into the stove so the knobs pressed into her spine painfully. "Hey!"

"Stop," he ordered, his eyes darkening. She noticed his pupils were completely dilated, only a thin ring of green showing at the edge. "You don't want to know about it. I ah—I _know_ you don't want to know about it. So just don't _ask_. Especially don't ask why they have started calling me—ugh— _the Joker_."

"Okay, you're right." she agreed. It was true. She didn't want to know. He was holding her wrist so tightly she thought he might break it but she refrained from saying anything other than. "Would you like ratatouille or lasagna—I could go either way, really."

He searched her eyes for a minute, trying to find something there to _understand_ her in the slightest. Why she would say that—drop the inquisition so quickly and move on to the domestic role she'd carved out for herself in their little safe haven. Poor Harley, he thought. So unsure of who she was, only that she was his.

Rather than replying he released her wrist, turned on his heel and went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Harley shut her eyes and decided to order pizza. She had another long day at the hospital the next day and needed to catch up on her reading—she only hoped his mood would improve before they went to bed. And it did, he came out of the bedroom eventually and ignored the pizza on the kitchen counter. Instead he sat on the arm of the sofa, looking over her shoulder at her reading.

He started playing with her hair—distracting Harley from her work but she tried to ignore him. His hand—long white fingers that she'd always thought looked like those of pianist—slid down her face, stroking her jaw softly, then slowly down her throat until his hand was flat over her heart. "Harlequin," his voice came out raspy and she looked up, unable to concentrate on her work at all while he was touching her so softly.

"Yes, darling?" she gazed up at him, hoping he would lean down and kiss her gently. And he did—except it was gently or lovingly, it was rough and vicious—biting her lips and dragging his tongue over her throat. Harley didn't mind this kind of kissing. It made her head spin so when he slid onto the couch next to her, covering her body with his and moving his hands over her—grabbing and twisting her small frame—she forgot her work completely—the papers of her medical journal spread out underneath them, fluttering to the floor.

She would read them later—she always did—somehow she always caught up—but in that moment it was clear she'd done _something_ right. So she kissed his scars and let him undress her, and she sighed happily that he wasn't angry with her anymore. Her Joker.

X

Harley's mind muddled over that night while she watched the redhead continue to cry helplessly. That had been one of the first nights she'd been introduced to Gotham's underworld. A few weeks later, though he'd promised he wouldn't ask her to again, she had been placed in a fire escape high up in downtown Gotham with a pair of binoculars, a walkie-talkie and an even bigger gun. She was told to let them know when a certain man with dark hair—roughly in his late thirties and wearing a navy blue suit—would climb out of his stretch limo and enter the Roosevelt Hotel.

She had managed to bring a medical journal with her as well as a thermos of black coffee to keep her going while she kept watch. The man came out, she told him over the walkie talkie, then sat back reading up on Eletctorconvulsive therapy and deinstitutionalization whilst sipping her coffee until he came to get her.

Over and over again, he promised it would be the last time and every single time he'd ask her again. Now, sitting in the dirty, smelly basement of some old apartment complex Harley was keeping watch over this sad little redhead. She once again had a text book in hand, irritated that the light was so dim in the basement that she could barely make out the pictures of lobotomies performed earlier in the century.

It wasn't that she wanted the redhead to die; it was just that she only had three months left until she was _Dr. Harleen Quinzel_ and her year long internship at Arkham would begin in early July. She had a meeting with the head of the asylum, Dr. Jonathan Crane the next day and knowing she would only be getting a few hours sleep, Harley rationalized that at the very least she could pretend to sound intelligent.

He stormed in then, his eyes painted up with two black circles—she knew it was to look scary and the redhead backed up into a wall, clearly terrified. With a sideways glance at Harley, indicating she should leave, she quickly escaped from the room and lurked out in the smelly hallway, still trying to read her text book. A thug walked past and noticed her peering closely at the page.

"What're ya reading Harley?"

She was none to pleased that some of them knew her name. The Joker's girlfriend who apparently—and she didn't know where this notion came from—was just as ruthless as he was, but she could play mind games, almost better than him. Give Harley a bad look and either she or the Joker would shoot you before you could apologize.

Harley held up the text book but was pretty sure he was illiterate—he nodded anyway. "Big words, you are a smart one, aren't ya."

"Indeed," she mumbled.

The door to the room burst open and he—the Joker—her lover—whatever he was these days slid out dramatically, his fingers fluttering in a way that could only be called jazz hands. Harley stared at him and was suddenly very afraid of him, as she hadn't been in years. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the knife twirling in his hands and the sheer glee at what he'd just done—murdered a young woman. Maybe it was the scars or the big black raccoon eyes he'd painted on. Whatever it was Harley swallowed heavily and pressed herself into the grimy wall, backing away from him.

And he saw it.

His black eyes changed suddenly—no more joy at a job well done—now there was anger there. "Oh—oh what was that Harley."

The thug could see a domestic dispute coming on and made a quick exit up the stairwell.

"Nothing," she said with confidence. She held up her book, "Just reading."

"Oh, okay." He was on top of her before she had a chance to blink, the knife held to her throat. "I'm sorry, I just thought I saw you—ahm—back away from me—are you disgusted? Disturbed maybe? Perhaps you don't love me anymore."

Harley tried to look bewildered, "What are you talking about sweets, I'm just waiting to go home with—"

The knife clattered to the floor and suddenly pain exploded through her left cheek as he drew back a fist and decked her—hard. Harley's mouth opened and closed a few times—her expression warring between fury, shock and of course, fear as she held her cheek. "What did you—"

He hit her again, this time knocking her to the floor. Rather than cowering she quickly scrambled up, "Stop it!" she snapped, her mind a muddle of physical pain and now a kind of overwhelming emotional quicksand. Tears started to form but she held them back, keeping her mouth in a straight line.

"So you're afraid of me," he took a few steps backwards. "And here I thought you didn't care about the scars."

"I don't!" she exclaimed, taking a few strides towards him. She wasn't sure why but despite the pain in her face all she wanted was to reassure him—take away the doubt and replace it with love. "Darling, please." She pleaded, her face an open and honest show of sadness—at his dilemma, not at hers.

He seemed to calm down, looking at the floor and picking up his knife, slipping it in the pocket of his trousers. He licked his lips and scars and didn't say anything for a long time while she took his hand and massaged his arm. A glance up at the bruise slowly forming on her face and he winced. "Oh, Harley Harley Harley Quin I'm—"

She touched his lips. "Don't be sorry and don't be not sorry. Let's just go home."

He nodded his consent and they escaped the smelly dirty basement.

The next morning Harley woke up naked other than a pair of her black cotton knickers. They were only a little bit sexy but he didn't really care about things like that so she didn't bother. He was lying next to her, breathing softly into the pillow, his black eye make up rubbing into the white fabric. She stared at him for a moment, wondering what was happening, watching the scars twitch with his breathing.

She started to get up— clinical practice at the hospital waiting for no one. A quick look in the mirror showed a horrific blue bruise blooming on her left cheek and small finger print sized bruises all over her body. Harley sighed and just prayed she had enough make up to cover up at least some of them. And maybe she'd say she got mugged—that might explain her face. Fell down the stairs was too obvious. Maybe just '_My boyfriend did it for the first time_'. Hopefully no one would ask at all.

"Ooh—uh—that's vicious," his sleep voice came from behind her, gravelly and nasal. "Poor Harley Harley Harley Quin."

She chanced a look at him in the mirror and turned around, "Don't worry darling, I know you were just—emotionally stressed."

He stared at her with blank eyes, the smeared make up on his chin and in his hair line. "Right," was all he said, then gestured for her to come back to bed. She did, but only for a few hesitant kisses and a bit of a group as his fingers traced the bruises from the night before. "I like this look on you—it suits you, Harley."

She snorted and started getting ready for work.

X

Note: Well, thank you to the couple people who are reading this, it makes me super duper happy when you leave me such kind reviews. I know I've been churning these out like a mad woman. Drop me a review to let me know how you think its going so far. I'm not straying too far, am I?


	12. Untitled II

A Fairly Honorable Defeat

12. Untitled II

Murphy had his head bowed, showing off the shiny patch of baldness that Harley found incredibly amusing. He was waiting for the two people he probably wanted to see less than anyone in the world—especially not in the same room. He had a raging head ache, no doubt due to the lack of sleep from the night before—staying up worrying about the next morning's meeting—then about ten cups of black coffee—his little assistant worryingly placing them in front of him all morning while he alternated between reading the Joker's file again and covering his face with his hands.

His assistant had asked if she could please not be in the room during the meeting. He'd consented.

There was a knock at the door and Harley Quinzel, escorted by Commissioner Gordon was led in. She looked slightly sheepish for some reason but also very pretty and put together for a change. Every time he'd seen her in trial she looked as if she'd escaped from Arkham herself the way she cowered on the stand. It wasn't just her hair or clothes though; she seemed to hold her head a little higher and straighten our her posture. _Good for her_, he thought miserably, _If only I were capable of that presently._

Harley sat down at the head of table as Gordon instructed her and she sat silently, her hands folded in her lap, waiting for what was inevitably going to be a very melodramatic and exhausting meeting.

"How are you this morning, Dr. Quinzel?" Murphy warbled, his watery blue eyes expressing anxiety.

"Oh, I'm well." She said politely, setting her hands on the table then refolding them in her lap.

"Great," he sighed, seeing Gordon with a few security guards heading back to the little makeshift meeting room they were using at the MCU. Murphy hated being around the Joker more than he had to be—during trial was bad enough— having to be within touching distance of him. The few times Murphy had sat down to explain what his case meant had been just as nerve wracking—the Joker had a very unnerving way of staring you down until you cracked. Murphy cracked very easily.

And now he had the Joker's ex lover sitting to his right—probably feeling very much like a woman scorned and possibly preparing to betray him right to his face, therefore potentially inciting a multiple homicide. Murphy rubbed at the bald patch on top of his head, sure it was this kind of stress that made the shower drain clog with hair every morning.

Gordon pushed the door open and one officer filed in, followed by the Joker, still in his purple suit and the last remnants of face make up still clinging to his face—his hands were cuffed and his ankles were cuffed and then those two were chained together making movement virtually impossible.

Harley was watching him warily as he was forced into a seat—a burly officer on either side of him. He tried to put his hands together on the table but because they were chained to his feet could only rest them in his lap. This put a very definite sneer on his face and Harley couldn't help but cringe with some emotion that may have resembled guilt.

"Right," Murphy started nervously. "Dr Quinzel you seem to know more about him than anyone—I know you've already given your testimony but frankly—" he paused to give a glance at the Joker, he was watching his lawyer with one eyebrow raised high. "—frankly, what we need to know now is what exactly we're dealing with. Do you think he'll be a danger to others in federal prison?"

"Most certainly," she said bluntly, crossing her arms and sending the Joker a dirty look.

That sparked his attention; he sat up, ignoring the constraints of the chains. "I see _someone's_ got her voice back—" he snapped, an unnerving leer pulling at his scars.

"Shut up!" Harley and both of the officers shouted at once. He rolled his eyes and sat back in his seat.

Harley cleared her throat, "He needs to be in Arkham in solitary confinement. In my professional opinion this is a psychotic personality disorder, compounded by years of stress and mental strain—there is no chance of any kind of recovery from this mental illness and it would be best if he's kept as far away from people as possible—including other prisoners."

"So it is a mental illness," Murphy said slowly, "That makes him—do things?"

"For Christ's sake," Harley snapped, "Haven't you been consulting any psychiatrists? What the hell is Goldman doing if neither of you have had him examined!"

"Thanks, honey," the Joker said snidely, screwing up his lips in disdain.

"Shut up clown!"

Harley sighed, "If I'm the only person who's been consulted where is Goldman getting her information from?"

"The press," Gordon said dully, then jerked a thumb at the Joker. "This is an open and shut case, there's very little need for evidence when he's fully aware of what he's done and fully cooperative in admitting his guilt."

Harley's shoulders slumped, "Well that isn't exactly fair," she said softly, refusing to look at anyone.

"Fair?" Murphy wheezed, "You're concerned with what's fair for him—I thought he threw you off a building?"

"A window," she muttered

"Only the fourth floor," the Joker echoed.

Harley shook her head, "I heard the death penalty has been ruled out—so now you're just figuring out the sentence." Gordon and Murphy nodded and the Joker leaned as far as he was capable in her direction, curiosity burning in his eyes—then one of the guards shoved him violently back in his seat. She continued. "He should be sentenced to life in Arkham with no area of probation. Highest level security, minimal contact with staff and other patients. Sedate him as much as is necessary or—" she shot him another dirty look, "Humane."

"Aren't you supposed to—uhm— be _defending_ me?" The Joker suddenly sputtered indignantly, jerking a chained hand at Murphy. "What's the point in a trial then?"

"It's for show," Gordon told him harshly.

"Excellent," Harley snapped, her blue eyes suddenly blazing with fury. "I'm glad I was dragged down here to take part in a trial that was just for show—I'm glad I could help you _understand_ him better, since that seems to be all my testimony has done so far. Satisfy your morbid curiosity."

"I'm curious," The Joker intervened suddenly, leaning towards her. "Why my dear Harley, did you come back to Gotham if you were so opposed to it in the first place."

"I had no choice."

"You did have a choice," Murphy interrupted. "As a character witness you could have declined."

Harley's mouth dropped open and she gaped at Murphy long enough for the Joker to satisfy a laughing fit. "_Oh Harlequin_ you still crack me up. So that was it—wasn't it. You came back to see me—you came back because you _missed _me—all this time, I knew it. You still—"

Harley started to climb on the table in order to get over to him to slap him but the officer nearest to her forced her back down in her chair. "I did not!"

"OH, I think you did _honey bunny,_" his lips curled back in a cruel smile, "Let's face it you and I—we're doomed to be at this forever."

"I'm not doomed for anything," she snapped, sinking back in her seat.

"You love me and there's nothing you can doooo," he sing songed at her, "Nothing you can do at all."

"Stop it!"

"Enough!" Gordon shouted over them. Murphy was shaking his head and pulling out his hair, the two officers were staring, completely bewildered at what appeared to be the strangest lover's quarrel ever. "Enough out of both of you!"

"I feel like I'm in divorce court," Murphy groaned.

"Never got that far, did we Harley?" He cackled and she shrieked with rage again.

Gordon threw his hands up, "Put him back in his cell—this is pointless."

They started walking him slowly out of the room—he was complaining in that high nasal voice about not being able to walk fast and how they were turning him into a premature geriatric. When Harley got out of her seat and planted her hands firmly on the desk, her eyes burning resolutely, only Murphy saw. She started moving towards the door but he couldn't come up with the words to stop her and Gordon was already out in the hall.

Harley slipped under the arm of one of the officers and roughly hooked her arms around the Joker's shoulders, pulling face down to meet hers. With cat-like reflexes there was only a moment's hesitation before he kissed her as hard as he possibly could—making sure it looked romantic and movie-like for all the police officers watching—watching a beautiful young woman press herself to this deranged psychopath dressed up like a clown and kissing him as if her life depended on it. That out to give them something to talk about—something against the plan—not to mention it was _incredibly_ satisfying to feel Harley's mouth moving eagerly against his once again.

If he was capable of missing things he missed the following—the look of shock in a person's eyes when the first stab of the knife enters their chest—the way the Batman scowled at him but could do very little else other than that—the way the people genuinely panic, simply because he threatens them, no weapon necessary—but he also missed Harley's little mouth doing whatever it wanted while her little bruise covered body clasped at him, needing him, and frankly, making everything else, the blood and gasoline and screams— she made all of that pale in comparison. Easily.

People in the direct vicinity were too shocked to do anything but stare, until finally Gordon grabbed Harley around the waist and pulled her off. The Joker started laughing so hard he was leaning against one of the officers who held his arms. Harley was struggling to get out of Gordon's grip. "Let me _go_!" she insisted over the manic laughter.

"Harley," Gordon turned her around to face him and shook her slightly, "Harley—what are you doing?"

"Harley Harley Harley Quin!" the Joker shouted at her.

"I hate you!" she screamed back, her voice coming out in a shrill vicious shriek.

X

Note: We're almost done folks. Just saying thank you to the people who dropped me a line. It always makes me smile. Leave some reviews if you feel up to it! x


	13. The Window

A Fairly Honorable Defeat

13. The Window

The sound of a body breaking in several different places, of a car being smashed open, of wind in her ears and fear in her heart one minute and then the sick _THWACK_ and the shattering crash—it assaulted Harley. Consciousness was being taken from her—metal and glass twisted beneath her, stabbing and ripping at her—was it in the shape of her body, she wondered, swooning, her head rolling against the deformed car—she couldn't feel anything, anything but a kind of looseness as if her body were being taken from her. She was gagging on something hot and wet, impossible to breathe, obscuring her vision now until it was taken from her completely.

X

Harley followed Dr. Crane down a series of long passages, her low heels clicking against the floor. They stopped at a door finally, steel with no handle as all the doors to the cells at Arkham, only a key pad and a small divot for a swipe card. Harley was given one of those small cards with her picture and name on it. _Dr Harleen Quinzel, MD_—she had to stifle the undiluted smile this produced. Crane wasn't really a smile-y kind of guy.

Crane gestured for her to look through the small plexiglass window at the man inside—fat and bald—he was slobbering all over himself, his tongue wagging out uncontrollably—he was wrapped in a straightjacket bound by leather straps. It was a disturbing image, and Harley instantly recognized it as a possible schizophrenic patient and had an idea what kind of drugs they may have had him on.

"Just a little test, Dr. Quinzel," Crane's voice was patronizing. He didn't appear to have any other tone in the few hours that Harley had spent with him. "What would your diagnosis be from a visual stand point." His lips twitched, not suggesting she wouldn't know the answer; he just liked the way Harley peered into the room and licked her lips before answering.

"I would say Schizophrenia—late stage considering his age and the fact that you have him in the incurable wing of your hospital. His apparent lack of awareness of his surroundings would indicate he is on a high dosage of an antipsychotic—probably Chlorpromazine, he seems subdued so I would hazard a guess he's also on a high dosage of a benzodiazepine—and of course an anti seizure medication—probably Depikote to combat the previous medications' tendencies to lower the seizure threshold." She hesitated for a moment. "I'd also imagine you've prescribed him Lithium to calm his moods as he seems incredibly restrained."

Crane pursed his lips. He was impressed but did not often show it— Harley saw it though, when he simply raised one eyebrow. "Why Depikote and Chlorpromazine, there are plenty of other drugs similar to those," he asked, condescending again but with a hint of a smile now playing around his mouth.

Harley imitated his raised brow, "Because they're cheap, Dr. Crane."

He nodded, "Very good. I see psychopharmacology is a strong point for you, Dr. Quinzel." He glanced at her briefly, then did a kind of double take when he noticed her neck and the small finger print sized bruises near her collarbone and throat. He sighed, irritated that he was required to ask. "Dr. Quinzel, I need to ask you a personal question."

She looked surprised, but nodded anyway. "Yes, Doctor?"

He removed his glasses and gestured to her throat with them. Harley touched her throat and then paled considerably—she tried to recover but not before Crane saw it. "Look," he was still patronizing. "If this were any other profession, personally I wouldn't ask but as you're treating the criminally insane—"

Harley cut him off, "I don't know what you mean, Dr. Crane. These marks—they're just an accident."

"Please don't interrupt me," he sighed. What respect he'd had for her as a doctor was draining quickly as she revealed herself to be one of _those_ women. "Since you're treating the criminally insane I need to know that you are of a sound mind. Frankly, if there's any kind of domestic abuse—"

"I'm not married."

"—any kind of domestic abuse or something else that could impede your ability to practice medicine I need to know so I can—do something about it." He pulled his lips into a crooked line, clearly displeased at the conversation. "So what is it, a boyfriend?"

"No," Harley said quickly

"Girlfriend?" He raised one eyebrow again.

"No," she narrowed her eyes that time, looking rather dangerous for a moment. "Dr. Crane I feel you have overstepped your boundaries with your assumptions. These—" she gestured to her neck, "These bruises are from a simple accident. I appreciate your concern but I would also appreciate you staying _out_ of my business."

Crane slid his glasses on and wordlessly led her down the hall to her next test as a psychiatrist. He knew she was lying, especially when more bruises became visible over the course of the next few months. They were apparent on her wrists, the size of a thumb or index finger as if she'd been squeezed just a bit too hard. Once when she unthinkingly slipped her cardigan off during session the psychopath they were interviewing pointed out the bruises all up and down her arms and she shook herself back into the cardigan, clearly embarrassed.

One time Crane noticed his intern limping slightly and she brushed it off as a sprained ankle. It was never anything more serious than that, bruised arms and a sprained ankle. But it was embarrassing for Crane to have to deal with it. As a psychiatrist and an intern she was fantastic; her paperwork stellar and her method of diagnosing and treating patients quality enough that she could have passed for an experienced psychiatrist rather than just an intern.

To the rest of the hospital she was a shining new gem of an addition and Crane was praised for his find in Harleen Quinzel. But knowing she was suffering from some kind of abuse and putting up with it made her weak in his eyes. And it was very. Very. Very. Embarrassing.

X

In truth, Harley was not suffering from domestic abuse. She was suffering from lifestyle abuse—the farther she got involved with _him_ or _the Joker_ as he had now styled himself and his work the harder life became to live normally. The bruises where from him, it seemed like he didn't know his own strength anymore or wasn't concerned about hurting her if he had to quickly drag her out of a building. Fingers biting into flesh, not consciously hurting her but still—he wouldn't let her out of his sight most of the time— but there was nothing at all kind whenever he touched her.

Harley knew better than to flinch. She simply tried to ignore the fact that he was becoming more aggressive and vicious every day and it showed on her arms.

Sometime in February, after eight months working under Dr. Crane at Arkham Harley was dragged along on another assignment. She had gotten home from work around nine, exhausted and in pain because of the heels she'd decided to wear—never again, she promised herself. She slung her bag on the kitchen counter and poured the largest glass of wine she could, draining half of it in one go. She had patient files to look over and notes to type up— and only about twelve hours before she was back at Arkham. It was strenuous. But rewarding.

Harley turned around, sighing as she heard footsteps behind her. "Darling, I am so—" she screamed, high pitched and involuntary at what stood behind her.

A stark white face, black circled eyes and red stained lips, drawing from one side of his scars to the other. Harley dropped her glass of wine and it shattered on the floor—he started laughing hysterically, leaning over the counter for support.

"Is it _that_ scary," he asked through tears of laughter.

Harley held a hand to her chest and gave a gasping laugh, "What in the world possessed you to scare me like that," she bent down to pick up the shattered wine glass, still shaking her head and trying to calm her rattled nerves.

He kept laughing but grabbed her by the elbow, yanking her back up to his level. Harley's hand closed around a piece of glass and she yelped when it dug into her palm, a thin line of blood bubbling to the surface. He didn't seem to notice—or maybe didn't care. "I need you tonight," he stopped laughing suddenly, the clown make up made every expression twice as impressive and Harley tried her hardest not to lean away.

She was still clutching the broken glass in her hand, "But I have work to do, darling, I don't think I—"

He pulled her harder by the elbow, fingers digging into flesh deeper than was necessary—she didn't think he realized it. "No, I need you. I need you to talk to someone for me—someone I'm _working_ with. He needs a shrink."

"You're hurting me," she whispered, trying to move her arm away.

He raised an eyebrow and chewed on the inside of his scars—then he squeezed her arm tighter, "Sorry, honey."

Harley still had a handful of broken glass, still sticking to her palm and she momentarily considered slapping him in the face with it and running away as fast as she could. That would count as domestic abuse on her part—right? If only she wasn't so frightened of what he'd do to her when he caught her.

"You're coming with me," he told her firmly, deformed red mouth settling into a crooked line, "I _need_ you after all," he crooned, before laughing again and then releasing her arm.

Harley sank back against the kitchen counter, breathing hard and biting her lips. The pain in her hand was excruciating. He looked at it suddenly and his black eyes popped—not with concern but with exasperation and a touch of pity. "What have you done to yourself now," he mumbled, taking her hand and leading her over to the sink. Whether he realized it or not he was crushing her hand harder around the glass.

He shook her palm out, brushed away the glittering shards and then rinsed her hand off. The blood slid over her fingers and his hands, blurring from crimson to orange, then pink as it slipped down the drain. A look of serious concentration had taken over his countenance as he dried her off, licking his lips and frowning then tied a tea towel around her hand almost delicately. Delicately if he hadn't pressed his thumb into the center, right into the cut so that she squirmed but kept her mouth shut.

Harley looked up at the clown make up, "Thanks," she murmured, then leant up for a kiss. But he turned away from her quickly, almost in disgust. "Lets get going," he rasped.

That evening's outing had been simple. She spent an hour in a dirty warehouse discussing a bank robbery with the son of one of the higher ups in the mob family. Her mission was simple. Get him to talk without hurting him—because the Joker would have hurt him but the people who'd hired him didn't want that. So they said bring in a shrink. And he knew just the girl for the job.

For the entire hour he sat behind her, playing with her hair and looking bored although she knew he was taking everything being said in. At some point he said, "That's great honey bunny, that's all we needed to know." He kissed the top of her head and she suppressed a smile. She was supposed to look just a little bit scary and it was hard with him standing there in his clown face looking unfathomably devious.

He jumped to his feet and sauntered over to the young man, "Now—as far as you getting back to _daddy_ we've decided to squeeze a little profit out of you."

One of the other pieces of muscle that now worked for the Joker spoke up—he'd been hired for the job too—so he and the Joker were on the same wavelength as far as he was concerned. "Don't hurt him, Joker. He's got to be in one piece."

"But what is the point in that," the Joker groaned, thoroughly and passionately repulsed by the idea. "We get some information, we make a bit of cash—where's the _meaning_ in all of that. Hmm? What do we _really _get other than maybe a new car—" he cracked his knuckles, still advancing on the young man, "What about sending a message—hmm? Surely there should be a bit of that."

"We're not sending a message, Joker." The other man said, his tone too close to patronizing for Harley's liking. She shook her head at his naivety.

"I think—" The Joker tapped his painted chin, "I think we are actually."

"Joker—"

He leaned down in front of the kids face, making his mask as sympathetic as possible, "What's wrong, _son_? You look a bit frightened of me—I don't know why you would be, I'm perfectly sane. Is it the scars?"

The boy shivered and leaned away.

"Clearly, it's the scars," The Joker sighed melodramatically and rolled his eyes heaven-wards. A knife flicked out of his right sleeve but only Harley saw it, "It's always the scars—" in a flash there was blood spurting and screaming then a horrific snap that resounded around the room. When the Joker stepped away he was holding a severed hand loosely by the thumb. He swung it around to show everyone, "I think that's a pretty good message," he laughed.

The mobster's son was screaming and holding the stump where his hand used to be, blood pouring over his lap and onto the floor. Harley was on her feet before anyone could stop her—he would bleed to death within a matter of minutes if no one did anything. She ripped off her cardigan and dropped on her knees in front of him, slipping and loosing her bearings in the puddle of blood.

The place where the young man's hand used to be was spurting in an even time to his heart beat—meaning at least one of the main arteries running through the wrist had been severed. She covered the empty socket with her cardigan, applying as much pressure as was possible and tore off a long piece of her skirt—she wrapped this in a tight improvised tunicate around his forearm, trying to slow the bleeding. Just as she'd finished the second knot in the truncate hands were on her waist, sliding her across the bloody floor and heaving her to her feet.

She slipped so instead she was dragged by the collar of her shirt across the rest of the room and out the door into the dimly lit hallway. Once outside she was released and she scrambled to her feet, trying to glare at him and his painted up face but he grabbed her by the throat and heaved her up against the wall before she had a chance. Her breathing came in short gasps as his infuriated eyes bored into hers.

"What—exactly—are—you—doing," he snarled slowly.

Harley could only manage a choking sound while her legs dangled helplessly above the ground.

"I was under the impression that you were helping _me_, not helping the poor little mob boss's son," he bounced his head back and forth a few times and curled his lips in disgust. "It's never bothered you before to have someone die. What's so special now, Harlequin?"

His nasal voice, so high and grating was beginning to be all she could concentrate on, "Why," she gasped, "I thought—I thought you—"

"What, that he was ransom?" he scoffed, "What is the point in money, anyway, all they care about is money money money. This isn't about money—its about making a point—he's missing a hand and he'll probably die—it will be painful. That is the point."

"Darling I can't breath—" she rasped, her vision now blurring.

He released her, but only to grab her by the collar of her shirt and drag her outside—over the gravel parking lot and towards her car. Harley half ran and half stumbled—and when she stumbled she was dragged, her ankles drawing hard against the gravel. They reached her car and he unceremoniously chucked her in the driver's seat. He threw the keys in after her and stormed back to the building.

Harley sat up feeling her throat and trying to steady her breathing as she stared at his retreating back. She wanted to jump out and apologize although she'd done nothing wrong. She hadn't betrayed him. She hadn't gone against the plan. She hadn't done anything but try and save a boy's life who—well, she thought he _wasn't_ supposed to die. No one else in the room thought he was supposed to die either. But he was going to—and it was because he—the Joker had deemed it so.

It took her a while to regain herself, even though the boy's blood was all over her—her hands and clothes drenched in it. She drove home shakily, unable to tell if she hoped he was there or not when she woke up.

But he was. He'd slid under the covers and snuggled up to her side sometime in the night, leaving a smear of white and red on her naked shoulder. When her alarm went off in the morning he was holding her tightly to his chest, his painted face pressed against her neck. He held her possessively—almost as if he thought she would disappear in his arms.

"I have to wake up," she mumbled turning toward him. Those dirty blonde curls she used to love so much—and actually, still loved so much—they fell over his forehead the same way they always had when he slept. It was just now they fell over that terrifying painted face. His eyes blinked open quickly, startling her.

He hummed and pressed a kiss to her neck, licking a bruise from where he'd held her up against the wall the night before. "Do you _have_ to go to work, Dr. Quinzel," he mumbled against her throat, a red line of grease paint following a path down the column of her throat.

She laughed softly, loving the feel of his lips on her when they weren't biting or scratching. "I do indeed, my love."

"The crazies can get on without you for a day," he sighed, turning her face roughly to his. He stared down at her, Harley who had always been there with her big blue eyes and her bouncy blonde hair, always beautiful, always in love with him, always his. Even covered in his bruises she was his. And as she looked up he could see her looking past the paint and the scars into his eyes.

She was the only one who saw into his eyes. It made him uncomfortable now, even if she was smiling in a dazed kind of way. He kissed her roughly and then snuggled into her neck again, holding her in place so she could never leave. She managed to struggle out of bed anyway, clearly trying not to start an argument or irritate him by saying 'no'.

He grinned at the thought, oh Harley. So easily manipulated.

X

Months of this went by, with Crane giving her dirty looks whenever she took off a sweater—but then she would be given a difficult case and prove once again how capable she was as a doctor. The board were talking about offering her a permanent position at the end of her internship—a low salary to start off with but with her promising ability to deal with even the hardest criminals—getting them to talk about their feelings, or more importantly, getting them to talk about their illegal dealings with the mob. For reasons they did not divulge but she had a vague understanding of why— they dissuaded this information from being released outside the asylum's walls.

At home the same information proved helpful. It was hard to imagine, but Harley found herself now one of the primary sources of information for her lover—or the Joker or however she was thinking of him these days—he was always a step ahead of the competition now. She could tell because the frequency with which she was brought out on the 'adventures' or 'jobs' was increasing rapidly. She was not particularly pleased by it.

He still wasn't hitting her or hurting her intentionally but nonetheless Harley found herself tumbling down stairs, being held at knife point in dire situations, dodging bullets in even more dire situations resulting in having to throw herself behind some kind of cover—this usually resulted in even more bruises or wounds of some kind.

It was becoming more emotionally taxing than anything else and she prescribed herself heavy does of Benzodiazepine in order to not become a nervous wreck when it came to her dealings with the mob, or the frequency with which she saw people killed in cold blood—or worse, the torture methods before they were put out of their misery. After the Benzodiazepine she started herself on anti-anxiety medications—then anti-depressants—then more benzodiazepines to take the edge off those drugs until her nervous state became more like a drugged blur and she was simply going through the motions of living.

It didn't help that her companion—now becoming more notorious than ever with his clown make up and his ruthless ways—always with his pretty yet dazed looking girlfriend at his side—well, he was cold and distant with her now. The only signs of affection were over-protectiveness and jealousy—and of course sex which had become rough and resulting in even more bruises.

And then one night it became too much. One night, something splintered in his mind—the night when Harley was sure the Joker had finally taken over.

They were in a warehouse on the outskirts of town. There was a Politician, his wife and some kind of secretary all tied up to a pole in the center of the room. The secretary was missing a few fingers and the wife had been stabbed through the stomach—twice—and she was now bleeding to death slowly. Six months earlier Harley would have leapt over to her, tried to stop the bleeding discern which organs were possibly punctured. But now she stood quietly behind the Joker, her mind drifting back to her meeting with the board when they offered her the official promotion. Only paperwork had to be filled out and she was a permanent doctor at Arkham.

The beginning of her career in psychiatry. It should have been a celebratory day but instead she had come home, told him the news, and promptly been dragged to the warehouse. Harley reached into her coat pocket for the small orange vial she now kept on her person constantly and swallowed a few pills as the image of the secretary's missing fingers assaulted her vision.

It wasn't an unusual night. This was something she was becoming accustomed to. But then one of the mob bosses who had hired the Joker on this night, gazing at the Joker with disdain as he hung over the politician's wife sobbed helplessly with her head on her husband's shoulder—this mob boss noticed Harley. The mob boss—a hefty Italian man with a full head of hair but an overwhelmingly huge stomach, straining hard against the buttons of his pin striped suit—well Harley belatedly realized he was looking at her. Leering was more like it. She wondered if he realized who she was with.

If he didn't, he was a fool. And if he didn't realize that she wasn't just _some girl_ he was even more of a fool. He waddled over to her, two body guards trailing after him. The Joker was distracted by sawing off another finger.

"Hey gorgeous," he said with a wink, sideling up to her. In the background the wife screamed aloud and the Joker broke up into horrific laughter.

Harley offered him a dazed smile that may have been more of a sneer than she realized because he moved in closer.

"You don't look so happy to be here, gorgeous," he joked—his security chuckled at his comment appropriately. It was, after all, part of their job to boost the boss's ego every now and then. Harley knew because it was part of her job sometimes too. "So you're with the Joker, huh?" he continued.

Harley ignored him, opting for staring past him out a dingy window where the lights of Gotham were only barely visible.

"Hey—" he grabbed her arm, "Look at me when I'm talking to you, gorgeous. Don't you know it's rude."

Another scream, this time from the secretary and Harley could hear the Joker taunting them in that high pitched nasal voice he'd developed—it went perfectly with that horrific laughter. She shut her eyes and tried to pretend she wasn't there.

"I _said_ don't you know its rude not to look at someone—especially me, gorgeous." He squeezed her arm and pulled her to his chest—she pushed him away, surprising him with the ferocity of the movement but then he jerked her back—and Harley heard something in her wrist snap. It was her right wrist too—great. How would she explain that to Crane.

Mob-man growled under his breath and grabbed Harley by the hair. _"Look at me, you stupid—"_

A gun went off—a big gun too—the kind of shot gun that takes a piece out of you rather than lodging a bullet in your brain. Then another loud shot and both of the mob-man's security were down on the floor, pieces of skull and brain matter splattered everywhere.

"Now, now, now—we don't _touch_ things that belong to other people—do we?" The Joker was in the mob-man's face before Harley had a chance to move out of the way. He head butted him so he fell on the floor, dragging Harley with him. She screamed and scrambled to get away just in time for another loud blast to go off and she realized the reason she could get away was because the arm that was holding her was now severed—but still latched onto her wrist.

She could only make a gasping sound and crawl out of the way while the Joker threw himself onto the screaming, bleeding—BANG—now armless man. She covered her face with her hands and drew herself to her feet with the help of a pillar. The only way she was able to stand was to hold onto it with all her might, her legs felt weak and she tried desperately not to look as the mob-man was slowly ripped to pieces—the screaming stopped and was replaced by gurgling, then silence, then the continued sound of ripping flesh until it all stopped.

Harley's breathing came out shuddering gasps and she couldn't decide whether to be terrified when she heard his slow footsteps approaching or to throw herself at him in the hope that he would—well—protect her from her thoughts. He had been protecting her right? That's why there was an unrecognizable corpse practically ripped to shreds near her feet.

Slowly she slid her hands from her face and then threw herself at him, clutching at him and pressing her face to his wet chest but he pushed her off, grabbed her by the back of her head and stared down at her, pupils completely dilated and eyes blazing.

"You know Harley, you've become a little itty bit of a problem for me lately," he rasped. The clown make up was sliding down his face with sweat and blood. "Not just an itty bit—as you can clearly see here-" he gestured to the body with the knife he still held in his hand.

"I don't—I don't know what you mean I just—" she stammered, unable to keep the fear out of her voice. He hated that. He hated when she was afraid of him—she knew it made him feel weak and useless—two things he definitely was not.

He pushed her on the floor, licking his scars and shaking his head. The orange vial of pills slipped out of her pocket and rolled to his feet. He closed his eyes, as if that were the final straw and kicked it viciously so that it flew over her head—"You can't even _stand_ to be around me—ah-hah-hah—unless there's little pink pills sliding down that little pink throat."

"That isn't true," she choked back a sob. "You know that's not true."

"Oh," he gave her a dirty look and started shaking his head again, "Oh, it _is_ Harlequin. This is your—ah—intervention, shall we say. It's the end of the line—you've run out of nine lives Harley Harley Harley Quin." And with that dramatic statement he kicked her in the ribs—hard. Harley slid onto her side, wheezing and panting, making a vague effort to crawl away from him.

He heaved her up to her feet and then gripping the collar of her shirt, hauled her off the ground with that unnatural hidden strength of his. He shook her violently. "Then what is it! Why do you cower, and moan, and try your hardest not to look at me? Hmm? I don't think my lovely loyal little Harley is in that perfect blonde little head anymore." He dropped her, and she crumpled to the floor in a miserable heap. He started dragging her across the floor before she had a chance to say anything.

"Stop it!" She sobbed, trying her hardest to pry is fingers from her shirt, "What did I do wrong!"

He stopped suddenly, hoisted her up to her feet again and stared into her face, licking his scars—the scars she'd sewn up for him and kissed a thousand times. He was practically snarling at her. "You know," his voice was a low, impatient growl. "You've turned out to be a great disappointment."

And with that Harley felt herself slam against something hard—twice until it cracked and sharp shards of glass pierced her sides—he was slamming her against a window she realized, her head snapping back and forth with the force behind his arms. She felt a cool breeze against her neck and then she met his eyes one last time. There was no green—only black marred by such a dangerous gaze that she couldn't even cry anymore.

"Such a disappointment," he whispered.

And then he let her go—she tumbled backwards out the window, her feet flailing in the air and Harley heard herself screaming, she heard the rush of air in her ears. And then she felt the car crunch underneath her.

And that was the last time she saw him.

X

Note: few more to go!!!!!


	14. Totem Timeline

Dedicated to Madame Estrella, Tatyanna, Madelineex, Andi and Lady Lexi because they are all freaking awesome.

x

A Fairy Honorable Defeat

14. Totem Timeline

The Joker lay flat on his back in Gordon's cage—the concrete pressing into the curve of his spine and the sharp angles of his shoulder blades. He rocked back and forth on the bones for a moment, relishing in them grinding against the cement floor. It wasn't like he had much else to do. He kicked his feet up in the air and mimed riding a bicycle—anything to keep his mind off two ever present thoughts—both burning holes in his brain. They burning so hard he wasn't sure it was just his overactive imagination.

The Batman. Batman, Batman, Batman, Batman, Batman. That was fixable. He'd get out of Gordon's cell—or prison—or Arkham or wherever they decided to put him. He'd get out eventually, back to freedom, back to plunging Gotham into a soulless city of criminals, murderers and thieves. He would take care of Batman then, it was _fixable._

You could always get guns and knives and thugs and bombs and gasoline and dynamite and bullets. You could get all of those things and you could kill Batman with enough man power and, as he'd recently proved, he could most _certainly_ use Gotham as his own personal play pen. All of that was within the realm of his control. The little burning hole in his brain shaped like a giant B—well, it was fixable.

Harley. Harley was not fixable.

He cycled his legs faster, humming to himself.

She kissed him and a jolt of electricity had shot through him—like life was being pumped back into him— bright lights had gone off in his head like a million good ideas at once—but they were too many at once. And her mouth was gone from his before he had a chance to grasp any of it.

Her mouth and her touch—they were separate – they were just a catalyst of sorts. It was like she sparked an old movie camera—peering into the fuzzy screen of the past and just able to make out some _idea_ or some _thing_ that he couldn't recognize. It was infuriating.

The Joker growled under his breath and let his legs fall limp on the concrete. He didn't care about the past—it was irrelevant—wherever he'd come from—whatever had happened to him—whatever brought him to the place he was now—all those things that everyone seemed so concerned with—that infuriated him too—it infuriated him even more that they were using Harley as a tool to get in there.

He sat up, crossing his legs Indian style. She was his after all. She always had been.

A door creaked open and shut and the Joker remained sitting where he was on the floor—relatively irritated with himself for hoping Harley had come to visit him again. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and saw it was just Gordon—looking exhausted and strained as per usual.

"Hey Gordon," he rasped, his lips twisting into a smirk "How's the wife and kids?"

Gordon didn't answer, he simply pulled a chair up to the Joker's cell and sat—out of reaching distance but still closer than usual with the tips of his fingers pressed together—and he simply _considered_ the Joker for a while before speaking. "You're going to be sentenced to life in Arkham without the opportunity for parole."

"Don't I get to hear about that in court tomorrow—you know—a jury of my _peers_, or," he flapped his hands around meaninglessly, "Or whatever you want to call them."

"You don't consider them your peers," Gordon's bushy mustache lifted when he smirked in disbelief. He shook his head, giving the Joker a look that he could almost construe as--- pity? "She was right about you."

The Joker was on his feet instantly, restraining himself from reaching through the bars lest he make a fool out of himself—Gordon was well out of reach, he would only look uncontrolled if he started flailing around the bars like a common psychopath. He opted for glaring at Gordon with as much hatred as he could muster. "What do you mean _she?"_ He replied snidely.

"Don't play stupid. You know I mean Dr. Quinzel," Gordon got to his feet as well, crossing his arms and giving the Joker a plaintive look from behind his glasses.

"Is she spreading nasty rumors around me?" The Joker snorted, crossing his arms indignantly. "That girl always did have a mouth on her."

"No, no," Gordon ran a hand through his hair, his wedding ring glinting in the dim light. "She's just right. She knows you better than anyone—she said you're a complete text book narcissist—that you've got a superiority complex—she's clearly right."

The Joker's hands fell down motionless at his sides, "She's—" he trailed off, shaking his head as if he couldn't come up with the word and settled on cackling instead.

"You know, we don't know anything about you," Gordon said slowly, "Nothing at all except for what she's told us."

"And?" He sneered, chewing on the inside of his lip.

"And she says you've always been like this. Always Narcissistic, always psychotic, always selfish and cruel." Gordon re-crossed his arms and shrugged. When the Joker didn't reply he continued. "Always manipulative—she says you even manipulated her into thinking she loved you—for years even."

The Joker only rose to being bated if it was incredibly necessary. It took either a dirty look to get your eyes plucked out or on the further spectrum—something similar to what Gordon just said. With every word—narcissist—psychopath—selfish and cruel—knowing they all came from Harley made the burning in his brain—the niggling irritation at Harley for just not _going away_—well it was replaced now—with what felt like stones being piled up in his stomach.

"Always manipulative—she says you even manipulated her into thinking she loved you—for years even."

The words were like the last stone being dropped and the Joker found himself clutching the bars so tightly he could imagine them snapping in his fists. "That is hardly any of your _business_ Commissioner," his mouth twisted into a sour mask, "_Harley_ and I – we've had our differences—"

"There is no you and Harley—there's only been you and your sick idea of Harley. And she knows that now thank Christ," Gordon's tone had taken on a nearly protective tone. Fatherly. Great. "She knows, you never really had her. You can't _have_ another person."

The rocks in the Joker's stomach seemed to rumble and create a burning—he couldn't identify it. He was about to give some indignant response about how he _still had Harley_ even if she was back peddling. "Thanks for the update, Commissioner—but I think this is between she and I—"

"There is no—"

He snarled out loud then, the same indignation flooding him at the thought of Harley not being _his_. That she was insisting she was _never his. _It was an outright _lie._ The memories came back, memories that didn't matter but proved she was his and only his. That first meeting when she'd been pretty enough and clever enough to get his attention so he didn't cut off her finger.

All those mornings and afternoons and nights with her naked and smiling next to him, rolling around in the white sheets of her bed—his mouth wasn't scarred then and even if she could be overwhelming sometimes it was the most satisfying thing in the world to have her look up at him with those glowing blue eyes of hers, pressing her lips together as if she couldn't actually believe she was lucky enough to have him.

No, no, no. He hadn't tricked her in to that. She had felt that way on her own.

Gordon was examining his face closely—watching a variety of emotions trip across the scars and paint—a momentary glaze as if the Joker had suddenly slipped out of consciousness and then slipped back in, confused and frustrated.

"And there it is," Gordon said simply, looking incredibly pleased.

"What—" the Joker snapped, his head jerking back, green hair flying. "What—where's what—"

"You are human after all, Joker. Try as you might to pretend you're not—you are." Gordon started to walk away, leaving the Joker seething and incredibly confused—which just made him angrier— Gordon turned back. "You know, the saddest part of your case is even if you are a mere mortal despite all your efforts to prove otherwise—you still can't love that girl. And it's for no other reason than you're medically unable to. That's the biggest tragedy."

The Joker remained quiet until Gordon left the room—back through the squeaky door.

He sucked on his lower lip for a little while—well, there was only one thing to do then—he'd have to kill Harley. It was unfortunate, but it had to be done.

The squeaky door opened and shut again—he hoped to God it was some random police officer he could harass and possibly manipulate into getting him out of the cell. There was rage building in his fists after Gordon's little chat and being locked up for the past two weeks. It simply would not do.

It wasn't a police officer though, it was Harley. Looking very pretty and in control of herself unlike the last time she'd come to visit him in his cell. Her platinum hair bounced around her shoulders—and she had on one of her typical work outfits as he remembered them—black pencil skirt and a pale blue button down shirt, tucked in with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The last time she'd come to visit it was in a messy sweater and jeans.

Both versions of her were one and the same to him.

"Ah—if it isn't the little engine that could," The Joker's lips curled back as if her presence displeased him.

"Please, don't act as if you're not happy to see me," she scoffed, her voice confident and yet light—familiar—like they'd just lost five years and suddenly he was now the guy that showed up on her couch whenever he knew the mob were looking for him and needed a place to crash.

He felt very self-aware then. Almost ridiculous. He didn't like it.

He gave a long-suffering sigh. "What do you want, now, hmm? Since you're insisting on playing the vic-tim now a days—"

"Oh shut up," she interrupted him, taking several confident strides forward until she was at the barrier between the touching and non-touching space. They regarded each other quietly for a long time and the Joker couldn't come up with anything to say for once. He just took in the pretty creature in front of him who was not falling all over herself to stay with him—or covered in bruises from him knocking her around—or crying because he never loved her.

Harley's hand was suddenly on one of the cell's bars. Tentative—testing him to see what he'd do—grab it and break it or use her necklace as a noose—what else could he do to her simply by having her hand? She took another step forward, watching his face—watching him suck on the scars and lick his lips compulsively whilst staring openly at her face. He sneered slightly, his lips and scars twisting as if he smelled something foul. Then shook his head in disbelief.

He put his hand on top of hers, fingers entwining slowly.

"Hmm," he hummed quietly.

Harley imitated the sound.

"What have we done to ourselves," she sighed, looking at their interlocked hands pressing against the metal bars—She glanced up at his face, wondering what was going on behind all the paint. "Did I ever make you happy—you know—not in a twisted way."

His brow creased with thought and he replied, "I assume you're referring to the 'Do you belong to me' debate." A short laugh quickly followed.

"Sweets," she said softly, pressing his hand harder, her wide blue eyes gazing openly at him, trying to wrench some kind of emotion out of him. "You belonged to me too."

"You think so," he mused, voice slightly dead. "I'm incapable of caring for others though—medically—it's in a book and everything."

"Do you believe that?" She took a another step closer to the cage, her body almost pressed against the bars now.

He looked at her warily, as if she were trying to trick him. Those big blue eyes so similar to the ones he remembered looking at him with just as much awe and need. And sure, maybe he'd looked back in a similar way. "I always said I was fond of you."

Harley licked her lips, refusing to break eye contact. The light was dim in the jail—but there was just enough for her to see that his eyes were the deep velvety green she always remembered. Everything around them may have changed—but the eyes were still the same. "You're not evil," she told him, "You may be capable of it, but you're not. You can still be fond of me. You can still belong to me. It's funny that—" she watched his expression change from slightly uncomfortable to down right exhausted. "You spent so much time worrying about me belonging to you—doing whatever you needed to make sure I was yours—and the whole time you didn't realize you were mine too."

He pursed his lips, sighing as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. "You _talk_ too much, honey bunny."

"No," she brought her other hand up to his face, blue eyes still wide and shining, and drew her finger from the tip of his scared cheek, across his lips and over the other side in a wide semi circle of a smile. She grinned. "You're trademark. I made them, after all."

He looked at her, green eyes suddenly keen with interest. "You did, didn't you. Huh. I nearly forgot. I guess you technically can lay claim to part of my face."

"Well," she snorted, "Next time you're scaring someone with them, just think of me."

"Dr. Quinzel—" Gordon's voice interrupted the flow of their conversation, insinuating that it was time for her to leave.

She squeezed his hand one more time and started moving away from the cage.

"Harley—"

She turned around, he was leaning against the bars grinning, charm radiating from him like a delightfully sweet poison. "I'll be seeing you soon."

Harley rolled her eyes, "Why do I get the impression it won't be from behind a set of bars or in Arkham."

"Because it won't be," he blew her a kiss and watched her turn and walk away.

X

FIN

Well--- that's like the first time I've ever properly completed something. Was it a lame ending? I can't tell, its exactly what I wanted to have happen but in character… anyway. Give me your thoughts and feedback guys!

Also, I've started something new called 'A Handful of Dust'. It's got more Crane in it and a completely different Harley/Joker relationship. I'm super excited about it so go read that and drop me some reviews there too!


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